Cracking Kuchiki
by Quillest
Summary: A bet between Renji and his friends turns into an all-out battle involving Seireitei. The prize? Unequaled bragging rights and a huge pot. The risk? Their jobs, possibly their lives. The task? Get Kuchiki Byakuya to completely lose his composure. WIP
1. Chapter One

****Disclaimer: ****I own nothing, Kubo owns everything. Not for profit, just for funsies.

****Summary: ****What started out as a bet between Renji and a few friends escalates into a ridiculous, all-out battle involving nearly all of Seireitei. The prize? Unequaled bragging rights and a huge pot. The risk? Definitely your job, possibly your life. The task? Get Kuchiki Byakuya to completely lose his composure. Very few rules, endless possibilities—poor Byakuya. He won't know what hit him.

****Warnings:**** There is cursing. I have no idea if that constitutes an "M" rating. If it does, I'll make the necessary changes. Also, mentions of sex later. Not the "heaving sweatiness" kind of writing. Just mentions of sexual situations, and people wanting The Sex. Sub-warning for this, mentions of het and pseudo-slash/shounen-ai. THIS IS NOT SLASH, for those of you that worry. For those of you that don't, look at it however you will. I promise it will make sense later.

Un-beta-ed. Feel free to correct and criticize so I can make the necessary corrections. Because, holy crap, Kubo has a lot of characters and I've forgotten who some of them are and why they're important.

* * *

><p><strong>The Chapter Where Renji Gets a Really Stupid Idea, and Byakuya Eats a Lot<strong>

It all started with a cup of coffee and sort of went to hell after that. What with the hair-dye and theft of Kuchiki-taichō's haori. And Yachiru. God, Yachiru . . . and the sneezing powder . . . and Rangiku and Shūhei's little "tryst" . . . and that _fucking _aphrodisiac. Renji swore to any god, if he ever got a hold of the psychopath that caused all that trauma, he would—

—but he was getting ahead of himself.

Anyway, it all started with a cup of coffee. Someone had managed to bring a large tub of it back from the Living World, along with a contraption that Renji could make no sense of, and the smell of brewing coffee now overwhelmed the office in the mornings. Renji couldn't understand why the drink was so popular, but did notice it had a rather pleasant side-affect of brightening the moods of the less alert shinigami in the morning.

As he carefully prepared what was needed to brew Kuchiki-taichō's tea, he thought somewhat sleepily of his own first experience with coffee. It had been hot, like tea, and while tea could be bitter at times, _this _taste had been enough to make his eyes water. It was like nothing he had ever had before, more pungent than even its odor would have one think, burning away any prior taste on the tongue. Needless to say, Renji had spat out most of the mouthful he had taken, though some of it slipped down his throat. It had been so strong the he had been able to clearly smell it on his own breath afterward. Absolutely horrible stuff.

It was then that just a little thought, innocent really, occurred to him. How would Taichō react to that vile beverage? Would his eyes, so icy most of the time, widen as he tasted it? Would his mouth twist in a desire to spit it out? Or would he force himself to just drink it? After all, a noble couldn't appear . . . _unseemly_.

Renji chuckled at the thought as he finished preparing the tea. For whatever reason, though, he didn't immediately whisk the cup to Kuchiki-taichō when he was done. Instead, he stared at it a moment and thought again, _Actually, how _would _Kuchiki-taichō react? _Without really intending to, he heard himself call for Rikichi.

Rikichi literally dropped what he was doing, scrolls clattering on a nearby desk, in order to rush to Renji's side. Renji gave him a slightly chagrinned smile. The kid was great, but a little overwhelming in his hero-worship. The over-eager manner that Rikichi addressed him with could be both flattering and a little embarrassing.

"Can you help me figure this thing out?" Renji asked before Rikichi could begin chattering at him. He pointed to the coffee machine. Rikichi beamed and nodded, probably just happy he could do something to help.

Renji half-listened to him as he first explained thoroughly how to operate the coffee-maker, then described nearly ten different ways to brew the coffee.

"Look, could I just have a cup of it?" he finally asked somewhat desperately. Taichō might be getting impatient for his tea. Not that it would really be obvious other than a flat, _"Were you tardy this morning, Abarai?"_ Which was not something he really wanted to hear. Again.

Rikichi nodded and quickly made a fresh pot. Renji's nose wrinkled as the sharp odor became stronger over time. Eventually, not hurried in the least by Renji's fidgeting or tapping foot, a cup of steaming coffee was ready and placed on the tray next to Kuchiki-taichō's tea. Hurriedly thanking Rikichi, Renji whisked the tray down the hall toward the office he shared with this taichō. After doing it so many times, Renji had gotten skilled enough not to jostle the cups or run into someone. Scalded, wet, and chewed out for being late, untidy, and clumsy was not a fun way to start the work day.

He knocked briefly on the door to announce his arrival, then carefully pushed it open after hearing the brief, "Enter" from the other side. Kuchiki-taichō sat at his desk, immaculate as usual. Shihakushō pristine and unwrinkled, not a single hair out of place, straight-backed at his equally perfect desk, face fixed with the usual "everything-is-beneath-me" gaze, Kuchiki Byakuya was an island. A place of quiet calm even when everything around him was a mess. Such as Renji's desk.

The two desks were in stark contrast to each other, though by now this fact no longer intimidated Renji. It only tended to make him tired. To be honest, he was kind of surprised that it hadn't been commented on yet. At least there weren't _so _many piles of paperwork. And those ink stains could be ignored. Mostly.

Renji set the tray down carefully but only placed one cup in front of his taichō. Kuchiki-taichō didn't look up from the document he was reading, but acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod. Renji hovered, casually, beside the desk, and watched as the cup was carefully picked up. It halted immediately under Kuchiki-taichō's nose, and the man stilled, no doubt noticing the strong aroma. Finally breaking his study of the document, he swept his gaze smoothly from the cup to his fukutaichō. He did not even need the assistance of a raised eyebrow to convey the question.

"It's something new, Taichō," Renji explained, suddenly feeling inexplicably nervous. "The shinigami in the division seem to like it, so I thought you might want to try it. It's called 'coffee.'"

Kuchiki made a small "hmmm" noise and carefully took a sip. Renji forced himself to at least attempt not to look like a naughty, panicked child or like he was intently focused on watching his taichō's reaction.

Kuchiki-taichō didn't spit the liquid out. His eyes didn't bulge at the horrendous flavor, and his features didn't twist in disgust. He merely stared quietly down at the cup before taking another experimental sip. Then another. And another. And _another._

Renji couldn't contain himself any longer. "Taichō," he finally blurted incredulously, "is—don't—do you actually _like _it?"

Kuchiki-taichō made another quiet hmm-ing noise and took another sip, considering. "It is not unpleasant," he said at last. "A bit strong, but the bitterness is agreeable." He sipped again. "Still, I think I prefer my tea." He looked at Renji for a moment before setting the half-empty cup down and making the smallest of gestures for the other. Renji, still feeling baffled that anyone could enjoy the drink, gave it to him and placed the coffee cup back on the tray. He turned, intending to take the tray back to the small table beside his desk.

"Abarai," Kuchiki-taichō said, causing Renji to turn back slightly. His taichō wasn't looking at him though, rather sipping his tea and reading his document again. "Your consideration is noted."

Renji stared at him for a moment, not entirely sure if that counted as a "thank-you" before replying, "Uh, no problem, Taichō. Anytime."

If he felt a bit guilty at trying to force a reaction from his stoic taichō, he ignored it instead to once again assure himself that Kuchiki Byakuya _was not normal. _With a sigh, he began to work on the mound of paperwork that never seemed to disappear from his desk. Still, the thought of cracking that bland mask nagged at him the entire day.

And for weeks.

He continued making sporadic attempts to cause a reaction by repeating experiments with different snacks or teas. In his free time he would scour the markets for something new or strange for Kuchiki-taichō to try, only to be disappointed in the end.

At first, Kuchiki-taichō had seemed puzzled, possibly even suspicious, but accepted it in time without question. Renji suspected it was because he didn't want to let on that he had no idea what his fukutaichō was doing.

With every passing attempt, Renji gave a little ground. Okay, Taichō's reaction no longer had to be something melodramatic, such as spewing coffee all over his desk. It could just be a startled yelp, choking, a snort. Then, it didn't even have to be that. It could be a strange noise. A raised eyebrow. A murmur of pleasure if he enjoyed something. _Anything_.

Renji would serve him that morning's or afternoon's treat and tea, then would retreat back to his desk where he would surreptitiously watch for any alteration in behavior. At first, he had been unable to spot any deviation from the bland, indifferent expression Kuchiki-taichō normally wore. Over time though, he had, without really realizing it, become rather adept at noticing and even identifying a good deal of Kuchiki-taichō's reactions.

If he found the taste of something interesting, though not necessarily good or bad, his head would tip _just slightly _to the right and down as he regarded it a moment. Then would follow the inevitable second sip or bite where he would try to decide if he liked or disliked the taste. Very rarely would he need a third one, but in those cases that he did, the tilt would become a little more severe and his brows would draw in slightly. With anyone else, they would have looked like a befuddled puppy. He would then proceed to finish whatever puzzled him, or at least until he could arrive at a conclusion.

Renji had been surprised at first, when he had finally noticed it, just how appreciative Kuchiki-taichō could be of something he enjoyed. When he tasted something he liked, his face would become, impossibly, blander. As if he was trying to hide that fact that something had pleased him. His eyelids would dip a little lower, and he would finish whatever it was completely.

The man was a study in patience and delayed gratification. If it was something that he found _particularly_ satisfying—which, if some sort of food, more often than not had a sharp, stinging spiciness to it—his eyes would widen slightly, then slip almost entirely closed with the next bite or drink. He wouldn't touch it for a while after that, sometimes to the point of an hour later. Then he would pause in his work and take another taste, savoring it. It was almost embarrassing to watch.

On those days, Taichō was much more lenient with Renji, especially if he didn't do something overly foolish, and Renji was always sure to take careful note of which things caused such a mood for later days. Days when he was perhaps running late or hadn't finished all his paperwork.

If he disliked the taste of something, his lips would press slightly into a flat line, his nose wrinkling just enough to be noticeable if one knew what to look for. If that something was also too sweet, Renji could spot a slight tensing in his taichō's jaw. It wasn't hard to figure out, after a week or two, that Taichō would only pick at certain things, and he wouldn't even touch them if they resembled a pastry or had any form of icing or sugary substance.

Once he had realized that Kuchiki-taichō severely disliked sweet things, Renji had set out to find the thickest, sugariest, tooth-achingly sweetest thing possible. The trick was finding such a food and being able to make it look normal rather than obviously, revoltingly saccharine.

Finally, success came in the form of a simple bun-like thing that ninth-seat had brought it. Knowing he liked sweet things, Mihane had offered him one. Renji had taken one bite of it and almost choked, mouth flooded with possibly the sweetest substance he had ever tasted. He could practically _feel _the cavities forming. As Mihane had apologized profusely, Renji had studied the offensive food like a man possessed. On the outside, it was a simple, pleasant reddish brown color. There was no obvious filling, jelly or otherwise, on the inside when he looked at it. Squeezing it experimentally did nothing, and it wasn't until he pinched it tightly between his thumb and index finger that he found the culprit. A thick, golden-brown syrup practically oozed from the bread, and the mere sight of it made his teeth hurt.

_Oh._

Kuchiki-taichō would _hate _it.

And so it had appeared on a little plate next to Taichō's tea that afternoon. It was all Renji could do to set it down without showing how nervous he felt. If Taichō was almost _nice _when he had something he enjoyed, how much more . . . _Kuchiki_-like would he get if he was tricked into eating something he found disgusting?

Without really allowing himself to give it much more thought than that, Renji hurried back to his desk where he could watch in—he hoped—relative safety. Kuchiki-taichō ignored the bun at first, but after an excruciating half-hour he turned his attention to it. He poked delicately at it for a moment, even cut into it to examine the inside. Renji felt more panicked with every second. Finally, though, Kuchiki-taichō seemed assured of its innocence, and he cut off a good-sized piece and placed it in his mouth, already turning back to his paperwork—

And he froze with a sharp, almost inaudible, intake of breath, eyes widening fractionally, hand frozen in mid-air above his parchment. His mouth twisted, then flattened into a thin line, jaw becoming pronounced. He very, very obviously wished to spit it out, but seemed torn. His eyes snapped sharply to Renji's desk, and Renji jumped slightly at suddenly finding himself the target of intensely irritated grey eyes.

And knowing that someone was watching, Kuchiki forced himself to swallow the offending bit, though he looked—possibly, just possibly—the tiniest bit ill. He looked at the bun with all the force of his aristocratic disdain, then gently nudged the plate to the far end of the desk.

The urge that Renji had sometimes to fill silence with _something_—more often than not a regrettable trait—forced him to give a short, nervous laugh. To be honest, it probably wasn't all that loud—it only seemed deafening when Taichō continued to stare at him with that flat, displeased expression.

"So, uh . . . I guess—" he floundered for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck and wishing that Kuchiki-taichō would look at something else. "I, uh, guess you didn't like that all that much, Taichō," he finished lamely.

Kuchiki-taichō's eyes narrowed slightly, and he pinned Renji with his stare for three eternities before he finally dropped it back to his paperwork. His hand made sharp, very audible marks on the paper. "I do not like sweet things," he said. And that was the end of the discussion.

After that, he would no longer touch anything new that Renji brought to him, so that method was closed. As way of apology, Renji brought only the things he knew for certain that his taichō enjoyed. He couldn't help but feel some regret, though, and not necessarily for knowingly giving Taichō something he would hate. After such an obvious—for Kuchiki Byakuya, anyway—reaction, he should have been appeased, but Renji found himself more and more intrigued.

Sure, Renji had seen his taichō obviously angry, but that wasn't what he wanted. What would someone have to do to cause Kuchiki-taichō to yell? To laugh, or look embarrassed, or shocked, frightened, incredulous, offended, or—gods forbid, he couldn't even imagine it—crying? Just _what _exactly would it take to make Kuchiki crack?

What would someone have to do to—

"Oi, _RENJI_!"

Renji jumped, knocking his sake over when Ikkaku punctuated his sentence with a sharp smack on the back of his head. The front of his shihakushō damp now with splattered sake, Renji swung around to look at the baldy sitting next to him.

"Dammit, _what_?" he snapped.

Ikkaku rolled his eyes and threw back his sake before responding, "You've sat there and stared into space every night for an entire month, idiot!"

Rangiku slammed a hand down on the table, nearly upsetting Renji's sake again and rattling the almost alarming number of dishes on the table. Somewhere between entering the izakaya with his friends and now, Rangiku had managed to get herself trashed. Not really surprising, but Renji was a little disconcerted that he hadn't noticed up until now.

"We're _through_, you hear me?" Rangiku slurred, leaning ridiculously far across the table to jab a finger into his chest. "_Through_. T-H-R-O . . . W-E . . . eh. A lady needs _attention_."

Renji rubbed the now-aching part of his chest absently and muttered, "Fine, sorry. You're right. Guess I haven't been the greatest company lately." He sighed, swirling the sake in its dish. "Just been thinkin'."

"Sorry we're not riveting company," Yumichika said dryly. "Perhaps you would rather sit with Kuchiki-taichō. I doubt he'd object to your silence."

Renji stilled, but didn't respond and continued to stare guiltily down into his sake. A slow smile spread across Yumichika's face.

"Oh?" he said, feathered eyebrow rising. "Daydreaming about Kuchiki-taichō, are we? I've got to say, Renji, the man is beautiful—and you know I'm a good judge—but his personality is . . . Well, I think intimacy with an ice sculpture would be more gratifying."

Renji waved a hand halfway through, and shook his head. "Nah, that's not it, and you know it," he said, giving him a pointed look. He set his sake down with a small sigh. "Just tryin' to think of what I can do to make him show a little feeling, ya know? Get him a bit emotional."

Yumichika frowned delicately. "Ah, Renji, that doesn't actually help your case."

"No, I don't mean it like that—I. Damn, Yumichika, you always tease me like I have some weird obsession with the man."

"Well, moron, _you do_," Ikkaku muttered. "Not that I don't understand wanting to get stronger, but come on. Single-minded, _obsessive _determination." He assumed a mock expression of grave seriousness and said, "I, Abarai Renji, will surpass Kuchiki Byakuya. In the meantime, I will follow his every move and stalk him. _Because I love him_."

Renji scowled and opened his mouth to make a comment about Ikkaku's incredible loyalty and hero-worship of his _own _captain, but didn't get a chance to.

"Renji's _GAY_?" Rangiku practically shrieked, spilling over her remaining sake bottle as she struggled to sit upright.

The izakaya, situated between a few of the division barracks and therefore a natural leisure spot for shinigami, became suddenly quiet.

"_Kami,_ this explains _a lot_," Rangiku suddenly declared, as if a light had been switched on in her head. "Like why you ignore my boobs when Kuchiki's around, or why you can never get a date with a woman, or—"

"No, this doesn't explain anything! I'm not gay!" Renji hissed, waving his hands frantically in an attempt to quiet her. Those things were easily explained. Kuchiki-taichō would mildly say, "Focus, Abarai—you will never succeed in anything if you do not have the willpower to control your own thoughts and body," whenever Renji happened to be ogling the fairer sex.

And sometimes he was just too busy to date. It had nothing to do with the fact that he couldn't find a willing woman. At all.

The shinigami around them were beginning to whisper and snicker. Yumichika and Ikkaku, meanwhile, were laughing so hard they were turning red in the face and just being absolutely no help at all.

"Well," Rangiku continued thoughtfully, oblivious to Renji's mounting mortification, "I guess if you look at him a certain way, he does look really pretty. He's really much too thin. I guess you would like that, though. And here I always thought you were after the _other _Kuchiki, but I guess . . . And I normally have such good intuition when it comes to things like that! I think maybe—oh, Renji! I'm going to help you! Don't worry about the Ice Prince, we'll definitely get you two together. We'll make a nice, romantic, totally out of the blue 'accident' where you both can be alone with each other. I know! I can lock you in a closet together and—"

Yumichika and Ikkaku continued to roll with laughter, occasionally pulling themselves together long enough to throw suggestions in, all which Rangiku ate up excitedly. The woman was a terror. No wonder Hitsugaya-taichō always looked pissed off.

Renji dropped his head into hands. Sometimes he hated his friends. Really, he did.

After a while, the romance plotting wound down enough that Renji was able to convince Rangiku—if not entirely, than at least enough that she would shut up about the whole thing—that he was not actually harboring a mad, forlorn love for his very male taichō.

Then he explained why he had been acting strangely, including everything about the taste-testing with Taichō and on to this new, almost driving need to make his taichō act . . . _normal_. Like everyone else. Like a living, breathing, feeling _person_. That was it. He wanted to be able to see the man, not the titles and breeding. Honestly, the whole division could do with a quick glimpse of that so they knew they weren't just following a heartless statue.

Renji had made that same mistaken assumption in the past, and it had ended very badly. Now, occasionally, he would see in a word or gesture, carefully covered in layers upon layers of arrogance and cutting words, the gentle kindness and understanding that Kuchiki-taichō possessed.

Kuchiki was his pride, was his nobility. But he was also more than that, and it wouldn't hurt him to show it every once in a while.

"Bah, surely it's not all that hard to get him to fumble," Ikkaku muttered.

Yumichika snorted softly. "On the contrary, the man has had many years to perfect that cool attitude of his. I think it would take something considerable to force him to slip."

"He doesn't ever notice my boobs," Rangiku pouted. "He's worse than Tōshirō."

"It took me weeks to get even a small reaction out of him," said Renji, disheartened.

"Because you were serving him tea and biscuits, Renji!" Ikkaku said, smacking the table with an open palm. "What you need to do is shock him. Do something drastic. _That'll_ get him to react."

"I actually find myself in agreement with Ikkaku," Yumichika said. "Though I'm sure his ideas would be ill-considered and graceless, whereas mine would be obvious masterpieces that your taichō couldn't helpbut fall prey to."

Ikkaku sneered at Yumichika nastily. "Yeah, you wish you could do better than me. I would have Kuchiki-hime acting like a completely different person with some of the stuff I did."

"I really doubt that. Your plans always tend to result in destroyed architecture and, more often than not, explosions that result in even _more_ property damage. And unless you intend to shock Kuchiki-taichō with the level of destruction you can inflict on Seireitei, I doubt you could outdo me in getting a reaction."

"I'll 'property-damage' my fist into your face, and then have Kuchiki begging for mercy next to you!"

"And you called _me _gay," Renji muttered.

"I bet he'd notice me if I was naked," Rangiku sighed.

The three men stopped talking for a moment to allow the mental image of a naked Rangiku to run through their heads. A _rock _would notice her. Also—

"I know how we can settle this," Renji said suddenly. "It's a great idea! Bet me. Whoever can get Kuchiki-taichō to react noticeably wins. But you have to be able to prove it."

The other two stared at him.

"Actually, that's a really _bad _idea," Yumichika said slowly. "Things like these have a tendency to get horribly out of hand. And besides, what would we do? Hound him until he cries for mercy?"

"I don't know," Renji shrugged. "Whatever you felt was necessary, I guess. Wait. There has to be some rules. Can't have Ikkaku blowing up the Kuchiki manor."

"Hey!" Ikkaku growled.

"I can think it over and get back to you tomorrow night. And if you guys keep quiet about it, then it should be fine."

They all turned to look at Rangiku pointedly, but she had passed out on the tabletop.

"Well?" Renji asked.

Ikkaku shrugged, "Tch, it's a way to kill time."

"I don't know," Yumichika said hesitantly. "It sounds very . . . suicidal, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps in the morning you will not think it such a good idea."

Renji shrugged but knew without a doubt that he would feel the same later on. "At least think about it. You could use the money for all that fancy hair-crap you use."

Yumichika assented, though with a small scowl.

"That settles it," Renji said with a wicked, anticipatory grin.

He had some planning to do. Kuchiki-taichō wouldn't know what hit him.

* * *

><p>A little slow, yes, but it'll pick up. Thanks for reading, review if you enjoyed it or having anything to say!<p> 


	2. Chapter Two

****Warnings: ****Kira, for being ridiculous to write. Crap-ton of internal reflection. Slow progression. Un-beta'd. Dirty __potty-mouths__.

****A/N****: Holy crap, guys. I was not expecting that much feedback. I'm not complaining, though. Thanks for reading, and I'm so glad you enjoyed it! So, RL with its three exams and presentation has kicked my butt this week. But I deliver a chapter to you nonetheless. Be forewarned, there's a LOT of internal brooding-ish-ness going on, but it's setup. I want to do the fun stuff, but if I were to just write it as it is, this would turn into a crack-fic. At least with 4,000+ words, someone might actually mistake this for a legitimate story.

Also, Kira. I don't get him. He's one of those characters in Bleach that I want to love, and I find him interesting, but I just most of the time forget why he's important in the first place. So, sorry if he seems off. It's probably because he is.

ONE FINAL THING OF IMPORT, and then I promise I'll shut up. I love the interaction/banter/relationship between Byakuya and Renji in Bleach. It's absolutely wonderful. So part of this fic (HUGE PART OF THIS FIC) is about their interactions and how they both kind of change each other.

* * *

><p><strong>The Chapter Where Byakuya Rearranges Furniture, and Renji Almost Dies (For the First Time)<strong>

The next evening found Renji back at the izakaya with Yumichika, Ikkaku, and Rangiku. Kira had joined them at Renji's promise of a free meal and sake, so long as he would listen to and write down everything Renji had to say.

Surprisingly, not being drunk made Yumichika and Ikkaku more interested than put off by the whole thing. Rangiku, already halfway gone, threw in some suggestions of her own to the "rules" of the game. They were summarily disregarded, as no one really needed to be told not to cut Kuchiki's hair, kiss him, or permanently alter his physical appearance in any way.

They couldn't cause Kuchiki (or any structures in Seireitei) physical damage—if that were even possible. This statement was of course followed by the loud manly boasting that most Eleventh Division shinigami tended to fall into, but it soon ended with Yumichika dumping a bottle of sake over Ikakku's head.

They could not do something malicious or callous enough that might possibly cause—and Renji stumbled awkwardly over the phrase—severe emotional stress. Even Ikkaku cringed when Renji barred anything to do with Hisana. Certain lines would not be crossed, not that they had really needed to be told. Still, better to be safe.

Any other methods of getting Kuchiki-taichō to react were fair game. The first person to successfully get him to openly and obviously lose his composure would be the winner of the whole affair—but they had to have evidence. That meant either getting him to lose it in public (which would make things infinitely more difficult) or getting a clear photo or the eyewitness accounts of at least two others not related to the stunt in question.

They also couldn't purposely foil any attempts made by one another, though they could work with each other if they found it necessary.

Other then his incredulous "Excuse me, _what _are you planning on doing?" at the start of the conversation, Kira remained silent, dutifully writing down the regulations of the bet. Every once in a while, Renji would glance over at the man, only to see he had become more and more grim.

When the subject of the actual prize came up, Renji turned fully to look at him.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked.

Kira, caught off guard, stared at him blankly before repeating, "What do I think about . . . ?"

"You're the book-keeper, Kira, so what do you think the participation fee should be?"

Kira opened his mouth once, twice, but nothing came out, Finally, "I'm the _what_?" he snapped incredulously.

"The book-keeper. You know," Renji waved one hand vaguely, "keep the money, write down the bets and participants. Bookie stuff."

Kira set the pen down quietly on the parchment and pushed away from the table.

"Thank-you for the meal, Renji, but I must be going now."

"Ah, wait a minute, Kira!" Renji said exasperatedly. He yanked the other man back down into his seat by the shihakushō. "We need ya—someone even-keeled and not part of the whole thing."

"Renji, you're _insane_!" Kira practically hissed. "This is Kuchiki-taichō we're talking about. What if he finds out? What if he becomes furious with you? Is a bet really worth demotion? Suspension?"

"Well, no, but—"

"What about the man himself, hm? Have you thought what it might mean to have his façade chipped away at? That perhaps this is his way of coping with . . . with _everything_?"

"Hey, now, Kira, just hold on a minute," Renji started, beginning to get angry.

"Kuchiki-taichō will not appreciate this when he finds out—and he will find out, Renji. Playing with people is not a game!"

"Holy shit, Kira, geez," Renji breathed, grabbing the man's arm as if to hold him in place.

Kira was flushed and looked caught between committing murder and bolting. His knuckles had gone white from how tightly he was clenching his hands on his knees. Ikakku, Yumichika, and Rangiku were—for once—silent.

"I'm not doin' this to be an ass," Renji said quietly. "You get that, right? It's not to be _cruel_."He paused a moment, then laughed awkwardly. "Guess I hit a nerve, huh?"

Apparently realizing that he had just verbally flayed one of his good friends, Kira slumped slightly out of his rigid posture, looking sheepish. He covered his face with his hand.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "Without Ichima—without a taichō, the division is not in the best state. The things—" Kira stopped himself, mouth twisting grimly. "To say morale is low is an understatement. More like 'obliterated.'"

Renji nodded. "That's one of the reasons I wanted to do this. Get your mind off things, at least for a little bit. Hell, we could all use a little bit of a distraction."

"Enter Kuchiki," giggled Matsumoto. "And he is one _very_ _efficient _distraction."

"And on that note . . . " Yumichika prompted gently.

"We need you, Kira," Renji repeated, grinning wryly. "C'mon, you know it'll be fun. If Kuchiki-taichō figures it out, I'll take the hit. And," he said a little more seriously, "you know that nothing _we _do will be enough to screw with his head. I mean, come on. It's Byakuya we're talking about."

Kira looked somewhat embarrassed at that, but hid it by draining the rest of his sake. He stared hard at the table for a moment before letting out a defeated sigh. "Why do you need a book-keeper for a bet between four people?" he finally asked, looking a little lost.

Renji gave him a pointed look. "Because Matsumoto's sitting right there, and even if I swore her to secrecy, she would let something slip eventually." Renji gave her a severe look and added, "But I'm thinking maybe one or two people, Rangiku. Not all of Seireitei."

"Yeah, yeah," Matsumoto sighed, waving her hand.

Kira pursed his lips. "Fine, but I'm charging a fee for every applicant," he muttered.

Renji practically beamed at him. "All right! Yes, just name the price."

"Five hundred kan," Kira said immediately.

"Eh, okay. That sounds reasonable, I guess—"

"And the entry fee is four thousand."

The table was silent for a beat, then—

"_What_?" Ikkaku practically shouted.

"Oh, my," sighed Yumichika almost sadly.

Rangiku drained her sake dish.

"Kira," Renji began, sounding pained, "that's forty-five hundred kan. That's over a week's pay, and I was kind of saving up for a new pair of glasses."

Kira shook his head. "If you're going to make me the bookkeeper, then you're going to abide by my law. I say forty-five hundred kan, you pay me forty-five hundred kan."

Seeing that Ikkaku had gone purple and Renji was on the verge of actual tears, he added more gently, "Look, if you guys want to participate in something this suicidal, you might as well make it worth your while. With this price tag, you will feel obligated to try your hardest—both to win a large pot and to not waste your hard-earned kan."

The others looked at each other unhappily, but seemingly coming to agree with Kira's thinking.

"Why do you have to be so logical, Izu-kun?" Matsumoto whined, sighing mournfully enough that her bosom heaved.

"Someone has to be in this group," Kira sniffed. "All right, so bring me your initial wager and your entry fee by tomorrow. Also, when will this—endeavor end?"

Renji blinked at him. "What?"

"A time limit, Renji. When will it have been long enough before you're willing to admit defeat?"

"Oh. Ah. Hm." Renji thought a moment. "How about the end of spring interdivision dinner?"

"Three months from now?" Kira scribbled it down on the parchment. "Very well. Try not to let Kuchiki-taichō kill you before then."

For the second time in as many days, Renji left the izakaya grinning like a fox. Three months. They had three months to trip Kuchiki up. Hopefully Kira was wrong and they managed to survive until then.

* * *

><p>Byakuya had never been one for socializing. He disliked people, for the most part, and that generally didn't make for the greatest interaction. He participated in the affairs expected of him as head of the Kuchiki clan, which involved tedious clan-meetings, entertaining and visiting other noble houses, participating in Seireitei state affairs, and so on. It was not because he <em>desired <em>to, but because it was his role, his duty.

He also carried the responsibility of a taichō in the Gotei Thirteen. He was a protector of the Spirit Realm, a warrior in the battle for balance. His task was to strive for greater mastery of strength and skill, to run a division neatly and efficiently. He had no time for the weak or the unmotivated.

So focused on maintaining order and perfection and upholding his responsibilities as a taichō, he had somehow—ironically—managed to fail in just that regard. He had a smoothly-running division, yes, but it was a hollow thing. It was something he was only now beginning to see.

Ukitake-taichō's men were skilled, loyal shinigami—not because they could flawlessly run through battle scenarios, but because of the taichō himself. Unohana-taichō's healers were quick, immovable in their concentration, and compassionate because they followed her example. Kenpachi-taichō—though a ridiculous, bloodthirsty, barbaric _behemoth_—nonetheless had an entire division that would follow him through the gates of Hell itself, laughing and swinging their zanpakutō at anything that dared challenge them.

Byakuya, on the other hand, had a division that ran as if it were machinery. Smooth, incredibly efficient, brilliant results, highly skilled.

Cold, distant, and uncaring.

They would not follow him into Hell, or anywhere else for that matter, if the conditions were wrong. If he was not . . . _fit_ in their eyes. If he was honest with himself, could he really expect them to? Not all shinigami held as rigidly as he did to duty and the law. It was not inconceivable that they, too, might think to raise their zanpakutō against him.

When his former fukutaichō had stepped down, Byakuya had gone through the profiles of high-level shinigami in search for a suitable replacement. Men and women of like mind, superb records and breeding, and personalities that wouldn't require constant attention or correction. Any of them would be adequate for the job.

For some reason that he still couldn't quite explain, he kept one profile in particular on the first weeding process that didn't fit with the others at all. It was a whim, a nagging. He told himself that the profile would disappear with the others as further prospects were eliminated.

But it hadn't, and in the end, he had ended up with two files sitting on his desk in front of him. One was a man unremarkable in appearance, though with an excellent service record and superior skill in both kidō and zanjutsu. He was calm under highly stressful situations and incredibly level-headed the rest of the time. He would be a perfect fit as Byakuya's fukutaichō.

And then there was Abarai Renji.

He had told himself it was the man's appearance that first caught his attention. Hair red and wild as fire, zanpakutō-marked from head to toe—the man looked like an animal. Unrestrained and dangerous. He tugged a note of familiarity somewhere in Byakuya, and it was only on the second sweep through candidates that he was able to remember why.

The boy at the Academy that had so rudely barged in on his first meeting with Rukia. With a face and a name, he was then able to recall some of the stories Rukia had tentatively offered about her time in Rukongai with her ragtag family of orphans.

He had remembered him then. _This_ was the one that would watch him with obsessive intensity, with a hatred and determination that were almost tangible. He had disregarded him before as merely another idiot determined to try and best Kuchiki Byakuya, but he had started reconsidering. This one was different.

And there Byakuya sat, Abarai Renji's profile having somehow made it through round after round of grueling eliminations to rest maddeningly atop his desk.

He was entirely unsuitable. He was loud, brash, unrestrained, defiant, awkward, entirely accepting of his impoverished background, sorely lacking in so many areas—like even the most basic handling of kidō—and, possibly the worst, Zaraki Kenpachi's underling. Without even addressing the apparent single-minded obsession to best Byakuya—probably not the best thing to look for in a possible fukutaichō—Abarai was obviously not to be chosen and should be disregarded immediately.

But he hadn't been, and so the profile had sat on Byakuya's desk for an entire week before he had made one of the strangest, most abnormal decisions of his career.

They'd had only a short month to work together before everything had changed. Before his orders to fetch Rukia, before that inexplicably harsh verdict that had left him feeling numb and battered with conflict.

Then that man, cocky, brash, and as wild-spirited as he looked, had confronted him. Had _dared _to bare his fangs at his taichō, at Kuchiki Byakuya.

"_You never did give a damn about your subordinates."_

Those words had struck something in him, though he had ignored it at the time. Ignored it only to have it come back to him once peace—or some form of it—had returned to the Soul Society and he was resting quietly in a Fourth Division sickbed.

He had been wounded severely, and Unohana-taichō had been unmoving in her order for rest _in _the Fourth Division barracks. There had been much time for reflection, loathe though he was to partake in it. With reflection came certain undeniable, frustrating truths.

Somewhere along the line, he had neglected his duty. This was unforgivable. It was to be remedied, but it wasn't something that would or could happen quickly. But he had a fukutaichō that, while being horribly ill-suited to so many other things, was perfect for this—for recreating the Sixth Division.

Much as it pained him to acknowledge it, Byakuya knew that was the case. His division could not survive the coming war without making changes—and neither could he.

All of that, however, was nothing compared to the ache in his chest, the tight knot in his stomach, the nagging in the back of his mind that reminded him again and again. His failure. His passive surrender to an unjust ruling that would have cost him something too dear to think about.

So he responded in the way he had found to be most efficient and pleasing in the past—he ignored it. However, the black cloud of this particular incident was not so easily avoided, and it troubled him daily.

He had not had the will of even one rude ryoka boy or the courage of a brash fukutaichō who fought even when faced with inevitable defeat.

But he was Kuchiki Byakuya, and he did not have the luxury to wallow in self-doubt or pity. He had a House to tend to, and a division to make ready for war.

And despite what everyone, including he himself at times, thought—he _did_ give a damn about his subordinates.

That still did not change the fact that Byakuya disliked socializing. Partly, perhaps, due to the fact that he just wasn't very good at it. He was actually quite awkward, which made him feel uncomfortable, which in turn left him feeling irritable. Outwardly, this had the unfortunate effect of making him look severely disapproving or condescending in the way that only he could be.

Which is perhaps why Rikichi looked like he was ready to cry or pass out or both when his taichō had suddenly appeared behind him, offering a few short words in birthday blessing. The other shinigami celebrating with him in the dining hall had fallen silent and were staring at Byakuya with huge eyes and—in some cases—mouths open.

Feeling that irksome tinge of discomfort, Byakuya let his eyelids slip downward even further than usual, mouth thinning imperceptibly. He turned to walk back toward the main building, the unpleasant task fulfilled.

"Taichō, wouldyoulikesomecake?" one of the shinigami blurted suddenly, thrusting a piece of the heavily frosted birthday cake in his direction.

Byakuya, caught off guard, could only stare at the offending food, thinking back to the last time he had tasted something so sickeningly sweet. Finally, he harshly, flatly said, "I refu—"

"WAH!"

Byakuya blinked, turning along with everyone else to look at Renji. He was shaking his head jerkily at the officer with the proffered cake.

"Taichō doesn't like sweet things, but he really appreciates the offer, right, Taichō?"

Before Byakuya could even decide if he wanted to respond, Renji barreled on with, "Yeah, that's great, isn't, Taichō? A ha ha ha, well, there's actually something really, eh . . . important . . . back in the office, so I was thinking we could go and, uh, take care of that. Now. I mean, if you wanted to. Uh. You know. Do that."

Byakuya blinked slowly at his fukutaichō, then walked past him and out the doors toward the main building. He didn't bother to wait for Renji, who he could hear making some sort of apology to the other shinigami. Byakuya felt that insistent niggling of discomfort again, but promptly dismissed it. He had conducted himself in a way he had observed as customary among shinigami. Abarai was just once again showing his incapability for self-restraint.

He heard Renji's thudding approach behind him when he was nearly to the office they shared. He had his own, but had taken to sitting with Renji because the man seemed more inclined to stay awake and work when he was being watched like some negligent schoolboy.

Byakuya opened the door to the office right as Renji came up behind him, and he stepped inside—

—and froze.

Silence. Then—

"Holy _shit_."

Perhaps not the most eloquent of sayings, but then again, Abarai wasn't really known for such things.

But their office was . . . disastrous. Wrong. _Different_.

Byakuya took a few steps into the office and came to stand in the center of it, looking around the room in silence. The furniture, every single piece of it, had been rearranged. His books and files were not in the right order, arranged by height rather than alphabetically by name. There was a hideous floral area rug that covered nearly the entire floor. Curtains of some frilly material and of the most garish, clashing colors possible hung from the windows. The room was filled with the overwhelming stench of flowers because they were _everywhere_. They filled numerous vases, covered the floor, desks—everything.

Byakuya continued to gaze at the room, unmoving and unspeaking.

"How in the world did th—"

Byakuya pinned his fukutaichō with an intense, questioning stare.

" . . . this even happen?" Renji finished. He looked at the floor, the windows, his feet, anywhere but Byakuya.

Byakuya's eyes narrowed. "This was the important 'thing' you wanted me to see to?" his asked, suspicion tingeing his words.

Renji looked stricken for a moment. "Uh . . ." he covered brilliantly. "No."

"_Renji_." The single word conveyed so much.

"I swear to God it wasn't me."

Byakuya continued to stare at Renji, unmoving. In the past, he had found such an effortless tactic to be very efficient in making his fukutaichō restless and more forthcoming with information.

As expected, Renji responded with an almost desperate-sounding explanation. "Some messenger said there was something important in the office waiting for Kuchiki-taichō. That's all, Taichō."

Mollified somewhat, Byakuya looked around the room again, before slowly coming to stand before his bookshelves. He stared at them for a long moment. He should leave them. There were more pressing things that demanded his time. The books could wait. They were just as useful in this order as they were in another order.

He could hear Renji fidgeting nervously behind him. Almost without thought, Byakuya searched for and located the book that had always occupied the first spot on his shelves. He picked it up and reshelved it in its proper spot.

He paused for a long moment. Closed his eyes briefly.

"Fetch a few shinigami to help put things to order," he commanded.

Renji sighed softly and went to do as he was told, leaving Byakuya to reorganize his bookshelves.

* * *

><p>Renji sighed and sank down into his chair. Never had he felt such relief to sit at his desk as he did in that moment. A quick survey of the office showed that it had finally been put to rights. As well it should be, after about an hour and a half of rearranging and disposing of the <em>thousands <em>of flowers that had been scattered all over the place.

All while Kuchiki-taichō stood in a corner and watched him and three other shinigami do the work. Oh, _oversee_. That's probably the word Kuchiki had used in his head.

Renji snorted. As if he was some distracted school-kid.

And, dammit, was he going to get pissed at Yumichika later for _this_. Where in the world had he gotten that many flowers in the first place? No, even better—how the _hell_ had he smuggled them all into the office without anyone seeing him?

Two days of waiting and wondering, and _this _was what he thought of? Though Renji had to admit, grudgingly of course, Taichō had looked _very _uncomfortable.

"Distractions have caused us to fall behind," Kuchiki intoned from his desk, already bent austerely over a report. "We will spend the appropriate amount of time remedying that before taking leave."

Which really meant, _Because I'm OCD, I had to go and force you to clean the office _right then_, and now we will work overtime._

"An inquiry will be sent out about the incident to ensure that such a disturbance will not occur again. I will not tolerate such foolishness in my Division."

_I will ruthlessly grill everyone that was in or near or even _looked _at the Sixth Division today, then I'll maim whoever was responsible. How dare they. How _dare _they. I'm Kuchiki Byakuya, dammit. _

"Be diligent, Renji."

_Move your ass before I shred you with Senbonzakura, Renji._

Renji sighed inwardly, took a report from one of the disconcertingly-high stacks of paperwork, and slapped it down on his desk. Perhaps a little too viciously, as Kuchiki-taichō glanced up briefly at him before returning to his own papers.

And so they sat, through the rest of the work day and on until the light outside had grown dim and Renji was forced to light some of the lamps. Though they had access to the flow of spirit particles that powered so much of Seireitei's machines, Kuchiki-taichō preferred not to waste it. With just the two of them working, there was no need to run the brighter, false lights in the office.

Having finally resigned himself to a long night, Renji actually found the task to be a lot less painful. The quiet stillness of the empty building was actually peaceful, and the flickering candlelight only added to the atmosphere. Every once in a while, he could hear the soft _scritch scritch _of Taichō's pen on parchment, but no words were exchanged between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, though. Almost companionable. If a marble statue could be companionable.

The report Renji was going over at the moment had turned out—impossibly—to be somewhat entertaining. A routine hollow-hunting assignment that was somehow botched due to the meddling of an outrageous human psychic. He became so absorbed in the report that the office seemed to melt away.

Until the near-deafening explosion right outside their window brought him sharply back.

To say Renji was startled was a bit of an understatement.

With a strangled, manly yell (_not _a high-pitched squeal), Renji jumped almost completely out of his chair. The hand that had been propping his chin up swung out in a jerk of instinctual reaction—sending a mountain of paperwork exploding outward off the desk and onto the floor.

Another _bang_ of noise came just outside the window.

In the span of about half a second, Byakuya was out of his seat, hand going to where Senbonzakura rested against his desk. As Renji scrambled out of his chair, reaching for his own zanpakutō, Kuchiki-taichō turned to face the window.

And was immediately blinded by a flash of light.

Kuchiki, no-doubt fighting to see through the haze of lights dancing across his vision, raised his hand toward the window. There was another blinding flash of light, preceded by an almost imperceptible _click_.

And then it all made sense to Renji.

Kuchiki, hand pointed squarely at the window now, recited, "Hadō number thirty-one—Shakka—_umf_!"

Renji slammed into his taichō's back with all his stumbling momentum, then reached around and grabbed Kuchiki's arm to yank his hand away from the window, disrupting the kidō.

Kuchiki slammed an elbow into Renji's stomach, then shrugged him off almost violently. He turned to look angrily at his fukutaichō.

"Taichō! Taichō, wait, they're firecrackers!" Renji gasped out, winded from the force of the blow. He inhaled raggedly. "Listen—just firecrackers, not an attack."

Kuchiki stilled, listening. The bangs and pops sounding outside their window, now identified, sounded less threatening then they had initially. Kuchiki-taichō frowned, brow furrowing—for him—severely.

"Firecrackers," he repeated. He peered out the window, trying vainly to find the one responsible for the disruption.

Not dying anymore, Renji managed to reply with only a slightly-breathless, "Yes, Taichō."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why would firecrackers be set off outside my office?" This was said with a sharp irritation just barely lacing the words.

"Um . . . a prank?" Renji offered hesitantly.

Kuchiki regarded him with such a blank look that even Renji was having trouble discerning anything from it.

"A prank," Kuchiki repeated, with such incredulity that for anyone else this might have been an exclamation of monumental disbelief.

The translation being, _Someone is dumb enough to pull this crap with _me_?_

The answer being, _Yes, Taichō. I'm actually _that_ stupid, apparently._

"Perhaps this and the incident earlier today are connected," Kuchiki mused to himself.

Renji wisely kept his mouth shut, pretending to pick an imaginary hair off his uniform as Kuchiki speared him with a look that said he was not completely convinced of Renji's innocence.

After about a million years, Kuchiki-taichō's gaze slid from Renji to look at the mess of papers that now covered their floor.

"It appears you were quite startled, Abarai," Byakuya stated blandly.

Renji rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, trying to fight the scowl from showing too much on his face. He glanced over at his taichō's desk to look at the much smaller—and intact—piles of documents.

Everything was as it had been; not even Kuchiki's chair was too out of place. Nothing to show that they had both been so surprised that they had almost rushed into combat.

Except for the report in the middle of the desk, apparently the one Kuchiki had been working on immediately before the fireworks had gone off. There was about a three-inch slash of black ink across the writing of the otherwise-pristine document. Next to it lay a quill, snapped cleanly in half.

Renji felt a ridiculously smug grin spread across his face, and Kuchiki-taichō glanced down at the report. When he looked back up, his eyes had narrowed dangerously and his mouth had thinned. Renji wiped the grin of his face and turned back to his own desk.

"Enough for tonight. You may retire," Byakuya said abruptly, sweeping past him toward the door. He paused in the doorway to survey the mess on the floor again. "After you have tidied everything, of course."

Then he was gone, and Renji was left scowling at his back.

Ikkaku and Yumichika were going to get their heads torn off when he saw them again, that was for sure. There had only been a few mild attempts made, and already this whole bet was more nerve-wracking than he had anticipated.

And, oh—how it would get so much worse in the coming weeks. If only he had known.

* * *

><p>Oh, Renji. How I love you. And thank-you for becoming a million times more attractive in the recent chapters.<p> 


	3. Chapter Three

****WARNINGS: ****Some words of foulness, illegal goings-on, unbeta'd like a boss, freakishly long, and some writing that is perhaps unintentionally gay-sounding. It depends on your mind, I suppose. (IT'S YUMICHIKA. THAT'S HIS CHARACTER, I SWEAR.)

****A/N not pertaining to story: ****First off, thanks so much for reviews. You guys are wonderful, and I'm so glad you're enjoying this. Second—so very sorry it took this long for another chapter. I have to work. I go to college. It was midterms. Biology hates me. A few people have begged me not to abandon this story. Don't worry! I have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Well, the middle keeps expanding, but whatever. This _**_**will **_**_get finished. It may just be awhile between chapters because I (unfortunately for you) tend to put my academics before my free time.

****A/N actually having to do with story-content: ****There is some Japanese in here like "taichō," fukutaichō," etc. I like trying to stick with the Japanese honorifics and some of the Japanese names rather than their english counterparts.

This chapter's pretty long, but hopefully not tedious.

****TIMELINE****. This story, if you haven't guessed, happens after Aizen's betrayal and before Hueco Mundo. I'm baffled as to how Kubo smashed the SR, SS, HM, TBTP, AND the FKT arcs all into (I think) seven months. So, this is a bit AU in that I slow things down a bit and say it's been/will be a few months before HM starts.

Enjoy :)

* * *

><p><strong>The Chapter Where Byakuya Becomes a Tad Self-Conscious About His Appearance, and People Start Talking<strong>

Kira tossed the last picture onto the table, closing his eyes with a small sigh and shaking his head. The other four shinigami at the table lost their tense expressions and all slumped back in their seats in defeat.

"None of 'em?" Renji asked.

Kira motioned to the pictures. "As per the requirements—which, need I remind you, _you_ outlined—these are not good enough." He picked one up. "I mean, look at this."

The snapshot looked like it had been shot from behind a bush and showed Kuchiki-taichō staring at the interior of his thoroughly violated office. He didn't appear much different than he normally did. Perhaps his eyes were wider, mouth a little slack. Maybe he looked a tad bewildered. Overall, though, nothing had changed significantly.

"Just a test," Yumichika murmured, lips pursed sourly.

"Or these," Kira said, picking up three more pictures.

These showed a series of badly-shot and somewhat-blurred images. Kuchiki whirling to look out the window, eyes intense, a flurry of something white in the background. Kuchiki with his hand raised, wincing against the flash of the camera. Kuchiki suddenly pitching forward, his wrist grabbed by Renji, who could only be identified by the presence of bright red hair sticking out from behind his taichō.

"Tch," Ikkaku snorted. "Shoulda seen him move, though. Like I had set the firecrackers off under his ass instead of outside his window."

Kira shook his head in exasperation and moved on. "Renji," he continued, "besides the fact that you didn't have evidence or eyewitnesses, yours wasn't even a real attempt."

"He was real surprised, all right!" Renji huffed defensively. "And it took me all night to work through everything, so—"

"You did paperwork, Abarai," Yumichika sighed. "That's not fooling with Kuchiki-taichō, that's called _doing your job_."

Renji crossed his arms and slouched further in his seat, scowling. "Yeah, well at least I didn't get rejected in front of half the taichō."

Rangiku merely shrugged, though her face had gone red and she wouldn't look at them.

"And it wasn't even a verbal rejection, he just stared at you before walking awa—"

"I get it, Renji," Rangiku snapped. She filled her sake dish and tipped it back again with surprising speed. She stared forlornly down at the empty dish. "He was probably just surprised, that's all," she muttered.

Ikkaku snorted, but wisely stayed silent.

"The point being," Kira said slowly, "you guys are ridiculous. Look at the money you've invested, and this is what you've got to show? Childish pranks?"

"At least I wasn't going around doing interior decorating," Renji muttered.

"Tea and biscuits, Abarai," Yumichika said flatly. "Tea and biscuits. What were you thinking? 'Oh, Taichō will definitelynotice me ifI_ feed him_!' Tell me again, how did that work out for you?"

"Listen, I already toldyou, that's not the reason I—"

"Oh, oh, and then I'll do aaaaall my paperwork so that he'll pat me on the head and say, 'There's a good Renji!' and be happy with me!" Ikkaku squawked in a ridiculously high voice.

Renji's face had turned as red has his hair. "I fucking hate you guys, I swear to—"

"Maybe _that's _why Kuchiki-taichō was so cold to me?" Rangiku murmured from her corner. She wasn't focused on the argument at all and was instead staring thoughtfully into space.

"That's exactly right, Rangiku-chan," Yumichika said, expression very serious. "You've stumbled onto Seireitei's forbidden romance."

"Oh, come on, really? We're really gonna start this shit _again_?"

"I feel like we've had this conversation before," Rangiku said slowly, frowning.

"And we're going to end it here before Abarai overturns the table in his rage," Kira cut in. He ignored Ikkaku and Yumichika's nearly identical smug grins and Renji's strangled curses. "You have three months, four days of which is already wasted. It's your lives, jobs, and money. Do with them what you will. If _no one _wins, though, there will be a large, anonymous donation made to the _Seireitei Communication_."

Smug grins were immediately lost and replaced with more appropriate expressions of chagrin.

"You get it. Good. All the best, and good night. I actually have work to do tomorrow. Work that I do _normally _rather than when I'm trying to win a bet."

With that, Kira rose and left the four competitors to their own devices.

"When did Izu-kun become such a manly man?" Rangiku asked, with just the slightest coloring of affection.

"Dunno, but it suits him," Renji said as he watched his friend leave the izakaya.

It had been a good idea to get Kira involved in this. Already, he seemed far more willing to socialize and less prone to bouts of self-pity and brooding. People joked about his stupidity, but Renji wasn't all muscle. He hadn't become Kuchiki's fukutaichō just for swinging Zabimaru around. Without a distraction, an outlet of some sort, Kira would have fallen apart eventually. The guy was strong. Really strong. But only people like Kuchiki were thatridiculously iron-willed and inhuman enough to keep everything bottled up and hidden.

At any rate, Kira was right. They were being too cautious, too small-minded about the whole thing. If they wanted to win, they would have to start doing some pretty major things.

Renji sighed and excused himself. He would have to get to sleep early tonight in order to make it to work before Kuchiki-taichō in the morning. He still had paperwork to finish. And to be honest, it _had _been nice having Taichō be pleased with his work for once. Even despite his handwriting being compared to the "scrawl of a half-blind ape."

* * *

><p>Yumichika pushed against the desk and back against his chair until he felt something pop in his spine, then he bent forward over the desk again with a small sigh. Filing, re-filing, going through various interdivision requests, transfers, Academy recruits, mopping up after his lughead squad members—doing practically <em>everything <em>in the Eleventh Divisions that didn't require destruction or involve blood was a time-consuming and lonely task.

And Zaraki-taichō said he didn't do anything. Feh. Without him, the Division would have had a dozen more violations and warnings slapped onto it. To be perfectly honest, it probably wouldn't even be functioning were it not for him forcing his taichō to sign things or at least permit him to forge his signature.

He absent-mindedly smoothed his hair with one hand as he peered down at the next collection of papers. Transfer requests that had been—for whatever godforsaken reason—filed in the _Recently Deceased _section. Perhaps it was a joke. Or perhaps it was the unfortunately common enough act of shoving papers in the closest shelf or cabinet.

The papers were for a small, frail-looking Academy-brat. Takeshi Shinya. A smart kid, but timid and not at all suited to the Eleventh Division. The request had been signed by Zaraki-taichō and processed, it merely awaited delivery. Yumichika glanced at the date and bit off a particularly unlovely curse. It had been awaiting delivery for over a month now.

It was things like this that made him murderous.

He sighed deeply again, then sternly told himself to stop doing that before he started sounding like an old man. He stared down at the papers for a moment before gathering them up and standing.

He deserved a break, especially from Ikkaku yelling at him to stop being a such a woman and come "hit some shit" with him. While he cared deeply for his taichō and his division, Yumichika was fully aware of the sort of crowd it drew and the reputation it held. He himself may not have fit the image and the mentality, but it was nonetheless where he was meant to be. Where he wanted to be.

To allow himself a small reprieve, as well as a chance to walk through Seireitei and admire the beginnings of spring, he would deliver the transfer personally to—he glanced down at the papers again—Ukitake-taichō. Within a day, Takeshi could be graciously and happily adapting to the admittedly much more refined ways of the Thirteenth Division.

Yumichika walked through the main division building toward the entrance. Zaraki-taichō's office was on the way, so he ducked his head in on the off chance his taichō wasn't outside "training" the other division members.

What he found was the eternally odd—but still rather common—sight of Zaraki, a great mountain of a man, sitting haphazardly on the floor of his office while his tiny fukutaichō served him and a few of her stuffed toys tea and sweets.

Zaraki was scowling, trying with only minimal success to daintily hold the tiny teacup in two of his fingers without crushing it. The remains of what appeared to be other, less-fortunate cups littered the floor.

Yumichika stifled a ridiculous grin borne from the sickly sweetness of the picture. This was one of the many things about Zaraki-taichō that the other divisions never saw, and for Yumichika at least, it was just another reason he continued to follow Zaraki.

Yachiru was completely involved in the game, talking alternatively to her animals and Zaraki in a "cultured" affectation. That this affectation was also coupled with a bland face and hooded eyes left Yumichika capable of hazarding a guess as to exactly who had been her model. She quietly and severely offered a biscuit to Red-Butt-san the baboon animal before taking one for herself. For all the world, she was just a tiny little girl having tea, just like any normal child.

Zaraki leaned forward and grabbed a dozen treats from the platter in one massive hand. Losing her severe façade, Yachiru slapped his hand repeatedly until he sighed and dropped them back on the platter.

"NO, KEN-CHAN!" she shrieked. "If you don't drink your tea, you can't have treats! Don't steal or I will have to kill you! Then—then _I_ will be the taichō!" She cackled gleefully at the revelation, then squealed happily when Zaraki casually batted her with one hand and sent her rolling halfway across the room.

Well. Perhaps not _entirely _like a normal child.

Yumichika cleared his throat delicately. Zaraki turned to look at him, bored.

"Want some tea instead of just standing there?" he asked with the all the air of a henpecked husband, holding up the tiny teacup again. Unfortunately, he was less dainty this time and the fragile dish collapsed into a dozen pieces. Zaraki stared darkly down at the remains in his hand, muttering a curse.

Yumichika laughed softly, and held up the paperwork. "I'm heading out briefly to deliver these to the Thirteenth Division. I shouldn't be too long."

Zaraki grunted, dumping the pieces on the floor to join the others. "Go on, get outta here," he said with a careless wave of his hand.

Yumichika nodded and turned back into the corridor, not bothering to hide his smile this time when Yachiru jumped off the desk and dive-bombed her superior with a battle-cry of "FOR THE EMPEROR!"

Outside, the sun was shining I

n a perfectly clear, blue sky. Yumichika smiled absently. The walk to the Thirteenth would prove to be enjoyable. Warm weather was returning to the Soul Society, bringing with it green and sense of lightness. A feeling of tentative hope, almost.

Aizen's betrayal had dealt a crippling blow to the Soul Society, to the Third, Fifth, and Ninth Divisions most devastatingly. In the months that had followed, there had been many changes. Squads not previously even acquainted with each other had been running joint-drills, learning to work with their own squad members and other divisions effectively and utilizing the individual strengths of each Division to the greatest extent. The shinigami were growing more confident, more relaxed. Yumichika wished sometimes that he could share the feeling.

Fighting for the sake of fighting was one thing. What Aizen had done, the deception, the blood, the cold amusement—well. That was something entirely different.

He could see the repercussions of the defection in Kira's haunted, beaten-down bearing and in Hisagi's quiet, forced reclusiveness. However, almost bewilderingly, he could see the aftereffects in things like Zaraki's occasional quiet contemplation of his zanpakutō and in Renji's abrupt transition from his scathing, obsessive hatred of Kuchiki Byakuya to a subdued, almost protective, loyalty to the man.

Whatever had occurred between them in their fight during the ryoka invasion, as well as the subsequent confession Kuchiki made to Rukia, had left a resounding impression on Renji and—it would seem—even on Kuchiki himself. Even _Zaraki_-taichō, who had the empathy and social awareness of a stone, had remarked that "Kuchiki-hime" had been acting more weirdly than usual.

It was one reason that Yumichika had even agreed to the ridiculous bet in the first place. If Kuchiki-taichō was already unsettled—and there was no way he _couldn't_ be—then it meant that there was the slightest, infinitesimal chance that he _could _be forced to completely lose the tight reign he had on himself. Such cool composure, such incredible, serene control was a beautiful thing. But so was raw emotion.

And, goodness, there was something so chillingly tantalizing about the thought of Kuchiki displaying such a thing.

"You stupid, ugly, foul _pig_!"

Yumichika blinked, coming to an abrupt stop outside the Thirteenth's gates at the shrill, feminine shriek.

"It was my idea, you ridiculous, silly cow!" roared another, deeper voice.

The grunting and thudding of a struggle began, and Yumichika finally moved into the courtyard itself, already fairly confident in his suspicions of who he would find.

The Thirteenth Division's third-seats were notorious, even compared to Eleventh Division's—present company excluded, of course—universal inability to stop fighting and actually get something accomplished.

And there they were. Kotetsu Kiyone and Kotsubaki Sentarō. Rolling around in the dirt, uniforms in disarray. Kotetsu managed to sit astride Kotsubaki, shoving dirt in his mouth while he sputtered and clawed at her hair.

Her white hair.

Yumichika frowned delicately. Even with the admittedly strange characteristics of the Soul Society citizens, white hair was not very common. He had been fairly certain that Ukitake's subordinates had not possessed such a trait. He looked again at Kotsubaki.

Both of them. _Both _of them had white hair.

He sighed softly, adjusting his grip on the stack of transfer papers and settling into a comfortable stance to watch the brawl. It was obvious to him now what had apparently occurred. While the incessant fighting of Ukitake's third-seats was legendary, so was their reason for it.

They both practically worshiped the ground their taichō walked on. Anything at all that they could possibly do to curqry favor with Ukitake, they did. If it meant cutting the legs out from under their fellow third-seat, then so be it. If it meant buying out a candy store in order to gift their sweet-toothed taichō with an office full of sugary delights, then let it be done. If it meant dying their hair white to actually _resemble _Ukitake—well. Apparently that was okay, too.

"Yeah, like that?" Kotetsu practically growled, shoving another handful of fine dirt into Kotsubaki's mouth. She held her hand over it to prevent him from spitting it back out, but he proved to possess greater physical strength and managed to shove her hand aside. He blew the dirt up explosively into her face, and she squealed, falling sideways off of him and rubbing her eyes viciously to rid herself of the irritating grit.

Kotsubaki scrambled into an upright position, coughing and spitting the remainder of the muck from his mouth. Recovered, he turned with a snarl to once again leap on Kotetsu. Having seen quite enough, Yumichika cleared his throat.

The two froze, then scrambled to attention. After a moment, they seemed to realize that it was only the Eleventh's fifth-seat and relaxed slightly from their rigid posture.

"Greetings, Ayasegawa-san!" Kotsubaki barked. "How may I be of service?"

"If it involves the taichō, Ayasegawa-san, please be sure to relay it to me!" Kotetsu cried authoritatively.

Kotsubaki turned an acid look toward her and snapped some inane insult. Kotetsu replied in kind, but Yumichika wasn't listening at all. He was instead staring fixedly at Kotsubaki's (rather unfortunate) goatee. It was a very dark color, actually probably even black. And yet, from what Yumichika could tell, whatever he had used to color his hair had worked efficiently enough that it had not merely lightened it to a grey, but had turned it completely snow-white.

The imminent row between the third-seats was suddenly halted when Yumichika quietly asked, "How, may I ask, did you achieve such a color?"

Kotetsu and Kotsubaki gawped at him like fish for a moment before realizing what he was talking about. Kotetsu opened her mouth to say something, when Kotsubaki thrust his hand out and rammed her in the side, causing her to stumble away.

"It was my idea," Kotsubaki snapped as if he were in drills rather than speaking one on one with a fellow seated officer.

Yumichika "mmm'd" softly. "Yes, I gathered. But _how _did you go about doing it?"

Kotsubaki scowled viciously. "I would be able to show you if some _blighted thief_ hadn't stolen it from me."

Kotetsu, once again standing at attention, though this time out of reach of Kotsubaki, removed a standard hair-care bottle from her shihakushō.

"I didn't steal it," she muttered. "It's not stealing if you've thrown it away, you complete waste of air."

"YOU STOLE IT FROM MY TRASHBIN!" Kotsubaki shrieked.

"Whyever did you decide to dye your hair?" Yumichika blurted desperately. He already suspected why, and didn't really care in any case, but he didn't want them tussling in the dirt again.

Successfully diverted, Kotsubaki gave him a thoroughly pleased look, smug in his apparent cleverness. "Well, Ayasegawa-san, I will inform you that Ukitake-taichō possesses a head of beautiful, white hair."

"You don't say," Yumichika murmured, eyes widening as if in surprise.

Kotsubaki nodded solemnly. "He does. He also holds a great fondness for those that are _also _in possession of white hair, such as Hitsugaya-taichō." The man pursed his lip suddenly in what could only be a pout. "Taichō's always giving Hitsugaya-taichō candy and patting him on the head. It's because they share something very special."

"Which is white hair," Yumichika repeated slowly.

"Exactly, so thus the dye to change our hair as a way to grow closer to our taichō," Kotetsu finished proudly.

"The dye which you stole," Kotsubaki hissed accusingly.

"May I see it?" Yumichika interjected, diverting yet another fight.

The two third-seats blinked at him, not understanding.

"The dye," Yumichika said with some exasperation. "May I see it?"

"Ah," Kotetsu said, and held the bottle out to him.

Yumichika almost snatched the bottle from her hands and began scouring the text on the container. He recognized the salon it came from, an expensive, highly reputable business. Kotsubaki must have gone through a lot of kan in order to get his hands on the product. Opening the bottle and sniffing betrayed no harsh smells, only a very faint floral scent. Almost unnoticeable. He glanced up at Kotsubaki again, looking from his dark goatee to the snow-white hair, still amazed at the stark difference.

A funny feeling came over him, then, as if he had stepped out of reality and was observing a different dimension of time. Possibly because he would never in a million years dare think of altering something so perfectly beautiful as Kuchiki Byakuya. So surely it was someone else, not himself, that asked, "Did you experience any strange side-effects during or after use?"

Kotsubaki and Kotetsu both shook their heads, looking puzzled.

Again, he heard himself speak as if without any prompting of thought. "And how long is this supposed to last?"

Kotsubaki shrugged. "Only a few days. A week at most." Seeing Kotetsu's disdainful look, he huffed, "What? The permanent was so expensive!"

Heart pounding, slightly breathless, and jittery with the feeling of thrilled nervousness, Yumichika asked, "May I have this?"

Kotsubaki looked at him again, frowning. "What? That was really expensive, Ayasegawa-san."

Kotetsu scoffed. "You threw it away, dolt. Technically it's mine to give away." She looked at Yumichika. "That was really expensive, Ayasegawa-san."

Yumichika thrust the transfer papers out toward them. "These are papers for an Eleventh Division transfer. Ukitake-taichō has been waiting for these for a month now." He looked at them very pointedly. "Whoever gives these to him will make him very happy."

Their eyes shone with a sudden, greedy light. "Take it," they both snapped, and lunged for the papers.

Before he was dragged into the fight himself, Yumichika dropped the papers to the ground and took a step back, cradling the bottle almost possessively. Heart still pounding, he hurried from the Thirteenth and back toward the Eleventh.

He was insane for even _thinking_ of doing this. Kuchiki would positively fall apart, and Yumichika might end up in a ditch somewhere. It too risky. It was downright suicidal.

It was worth it.

Oh, _kami_, he was insane.

And he was going to win this damn bet.

* * *

><p>Ikkaku watched Yumichika with narrowed eyes. The man had been distracted for the past two days, leg bouncing with nervous energy as he sat at his desk, hair mussed from the many times he had anxiously run his hand through it, and—oh, most sinful of acts—biting his nails while he stared vacantly at things, mind obviously far away from his current location.<p>

Yumichika was nervous. And Yumichika didn't _get _nervous. Which meant that he had either done something very, very bad, or was planning on doing something in the near future. Which led Ikkaku to believe that the little bastard had managed to find a way to screw with Kuchiki. A really _good_ way. A way that would cause some definite blood-spilling if he was caught. Thus the nervous energy.

Well, too bad for Yumi, Ikkaku had already thought of something. And it was probably way better. Still, Yumichika was smart. It wouldn't hurt to at least know what he was planning.

"Hey," Ikkaku grunted. When Yumichika didn't respond, he chucked an empty inkwell from his desk at the man's head.

Out of instinctual reflex more than actual awareness, Yumichika turned his head slightly to allow the projectile to shatter against the wall. Regardless, Ikkaku had attained is goal and now had the full attention of a rather irritated Yumichika fixed on him.

"You're aware that those are for aiding in writing, correct? You know, as in reports? Which make up a good forty percent of your job, _at_ _least_?" Yumichika said slowly.

Ikkaku shrugged carelessly. Yumichika had a stick up his butt about paperwork, which no one else in the Eleventh really got. If he would fight more rather than writing and filing and shit, then maybe he wouldn't suck so much. Well, that wasn't entirely true. Even Ikkaku had to grudgingly admit that there was a reason Yumichika effortlessly qualified for the fourth seat. Still, he sat around most of the time doing nothing but getting on everyone's case.

"Whatcha doin' to Kuchiki?" he asked.

Yumichika blinked at him, clearly surprised, then narrowed his eyes, expression becoming carefully aloof. "What makes you think I'm doing anything?"

Ikkaku snorted. "Stop pretending. Was just curious. I don't really care anyhow, seeing as it doesn't really matter what you do. I'm gonna win this thing," he said with a fierce grin.

Yumichika scoffed lightly. "Oh, is that so? And what, pray tell, has the great mind of Ikkaku Madarame contrived?"

"Not telling you, Yumi," Ikkaku sneered. "Just that it involves great personal risk and balls of steel—because I'm going into to Kuchiki manor itself."

Yumichika was silent a moment before he said softly, "Is that so?" He looked at Ikkaku for a long moment in contemplation.

Slightly self-conscious, Ikkaku finally snapped, "What?"

"How do you plan on getting in?"

It was Ikkaku's turn to be bewildered. "Huh?"

"How, exactly, do you and your balls of steel plan on infiltrating Kuchiki manor? It's guards are nearly a match for the men of the Onmitsukidō itself, there are security measures programmed by the Twelfth, not to mention the layout is wretchedly confusing. Oh, and Kuchiki lives there. By the way. So," Yumichika repeated with a small, superior smile, "how do you plan on getting in?"

Ikkaku scowled, wishing he had another inkwell. Or a boulder. "I don't know," he muttered.

"Pardon?"

"I don't know, okay?" he snapped. "Haven't figured that out yet. Was hell enough trying to get Akon to monitor and record the damn thing for me."

"Akon?" Yumichika repeated.

"Yeah," Ikkaku said with a sharp wave of his hand, still frustrated. "He's gonna send one of his little recorders in to watch Kuchiki's reaction since I can't really be standing in his house snapping pictures."

Yumichika was quiet for a moment. "Was it difficult persuading him?"

"No, but it was damned expensive. And I had to tell him why."

Silence, then, "You told him _why_?" Yumichika hissed.

"It's not that big of a deal," Ikkaku said defensively. "Besides, I really needed his help."

Yumichika pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "So let me get this straight. After infiltrating Kuchiki manor somehow, you then go to Akon, sit back, and watch Kuchiki's reaction from the safety of the SDRI?"

"That's the idea," Ikkaku replied with a shrug.

Yumichika fiddled with his fingers for a long moment, contemplating something very seriously. Finally, he spoke. "What if I could get you into Kuchiki manor?"

Ikkaku sat up straighter. "Yeah?" He got it then, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Yumichika. "What do you want out of it?"

"Akon's recording of my own attempt," Yumichika replied simply.

Ikkaku thought hard for a moment. It might cost him a little extra, but Akon had been really interested in the whole thing. Maybe he would do it just out of curiosity. And he really didn't have any idea how to get in Kuchiki's manor, which severely hampered his plan. It would be such a waste of money to not even be able to give Akon anything to record in the end . . .

"Fine," Ikkaku surrendered at last. "How are we getting in?"

Yumichika grinned widely. "Yachiru's tunnels."

"Yachiru's what?" Ikkaku repeated.

"She's built tunnels throughout Kuchiki manor so she can come and go as she pleases. Kuchiki-taichō has tried to seal them all, but he has been unsuccessful. There are still some that he doesn't know about." Yumichika's eyes gleamed conspiratorially. "Some that actually lead to his private quarters, for instance."

"And Yachiru built these?"

Yumichika nodded.

Ikkaku shook his head and sat back in his chair. "That girl. If Renji doesn't watch out, she's going to steal his title of 'Kuchiki's Most Avid Stalker.' So when are we going in?"

"Tonight," Yumichika said instantly. "Let's go. Get it over with. We'll do it before he comes home from the Sixth. Renji says he leaves pretty late at the end of the week."

Ikkaku nodded, feeling his heartbeat increase, feeling a tight knot of excitement in his gut. The risk, the exhilaration of possibly angering one of the most powerful men—in strength and politically—in Seireitei was proving to be such a high. "Yeah. Tonight. It's on."

Hopefully they didn't end up with their heads cut off or something. Though a fight with Kuchiki might prove entertaining. At least he'd go out swinging.

* * *

><p>"These tunnels are fucking small," Ikkaku groused for the millionth time. They were walking through the dirt tunnels, bent almost in half at the waist to avoid scraping their heads against the ceilings.<p>

"Yachiru made them, Ikkaku," Yumichika said patiently. "She happens to be the size of a small dog."

He looked at the map in the dim light provided by a small kidō ball. It was crudely-drawn, not to scale at all, and had left out many areas he'd encountered so far. This unfortunately had sent them to various dead ends that had wasted precious time. It was to be expected of a map drawn by a child, though.

When they had requested the use of her tunnels and something to guide them through, Yachiru had been both ecstatic and frustrated. After her last foray into Kuchiki's manor where she had almost set Byakuya's western gardens on fire, Zaraki-taichō had displayed that rare moment of disapproving parenthood and grounded her from visiting Kuchiki for a while. Not because he was looking out for Kuchiki's interests, but because Yachiru had come back with burned fingers and singed hair.

Yachiru desperately wanted to go, and demanded that they take her. After explaining that there was absolutely no way they could, she finally settled for them promising to buy her a massive stuffed animal at the nearest opportunity.

Even without the threat of a murderous, parental Zaraki looming over them, bringing Yachiru with them would have probably resulted in her botching the whole affair by alerting Kuchiki or some other such nonsense. She just couldn't leave him well enough alone. If there was anyone in the whole of Seireitei that Yachiru liked nearly as much as Zaraki-taichō, it was Kuchiki Byakuya. For reasons completely unknown. It wasn't as if the noble encouraged the behavior. Yumichika himself thought it might be a young girl's first crush—understandable, really.

Unfortunately for Byakuya, that meant she was always in his hair about something or other. Yachiru may have cared for him, but she was still a child. A rambunctious, mischievous hellion of a child that created _tunnels _into one of the most protected households of the Soul Society. Still, the few instances where Yumichika had witnessed Kuchiki interacting with Yachriu had been surprisingly enlightening. He handled the child with little effort, and she handled him with her typical joy and a sense of warmth not usually associated wit her.

If things had been different, Yumichika mused, Kuchiki might have made a good father.

The tunnel before them came to an abrupt end, the exit directly overhead. It was a wooden hatch marked with a pink chalk drawing of a cat and something that looked like a dog or a wolf. The messy scrawl next to it read, "Byakushi's bedroom!"

"Finally," Ikkaku breathed. "Can't believe that brat's map actually led us here."

Yumichika was a little surprised himself. "All right," he began, turning slightly in the cramped tunnel to peer at Ikkaku, "this is where we part ways. I'm going in and getting out. Do whatever you're going to do, but don't mention me if you get caught."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Ikkaku replied testily. "And I'm not going to get caught. Now hurry up already."

Yumichika looked back at the hatch, hesitating a moment. He breathed in deeply, concealing his reiatsu as tightly as he possibly could, then pushed up against the hatch.

It opened easily, and with only the slightest of creaks. The room above was dark and still, and he quickly slithered up through the opening and into the quietness of Kuchiki's empty living quarters. He stepped away from the hatch almost absently to allow Ikkaku easier access, his eyes widening to take in Kuchiki's quarters.

They were huge. Massive. At least half of the Eleventh's main office could fit in this room and the one adjoining one adjoining it. And it was utterly gorgeous. Artwork no doubt thousands of years old graced the walls, along with samples of calligraphy, some of which happened to be Kuchiki's own. Everything from the furniture and rugs to the deep shine and color of the wooden moldings on the walls positively reeked aristocratic elegance without being overdone or gaudy. They were actually rather simple, which only enhanced the aesthetic feeling. He should have known Byakuya would have been more than capable of creating a room that was both beautiful and intimidating in it's splendor.

Ikkaku let out a low whistle. "Would ya look at that bed? Kuchiki could have a whole _party _in there!"

Of course that would be what Madarame noticed. Yumichika glanced again at the bed, a massive, low thing that looked like a cross between the traditional Japanese futon and a Western bed. It's wood was very dark, the mattress itself covered innumerable pillows and thick, rich blankets. Ikkaku was right. At least four people could sleep in it comfortably and probably never end up touching each other unless they wanted to.

Yumichika allowed himself another minute of appreciative gawking, then turned and made his way into the adjoining chambers, leaving Ikkaku up to his own devices. The next room seemed to be a small study, equipped with another desk, comfortable seating and rows of bookshelves. One wall of the study, which extended into the bedroom as well, had windows and opened up to the beautiful sakura orchard and koi ponds that Kuchiki maintained.

This was not the room he needed, however, so he moved on into the next room. He smiled seeing the inside. Aha.

The room housed possibly the largest private bathing area he had ever seen, easily capable of fitting ten or so men. The tiles were a deep red and grey marble, the walls a similar dark grey. Shelves filled with linens and innumerable salts, shampoos, and soaps lined one wall. Yumichika mourned the utter unfairness of life for a moment before making his way over to the shelves.

It was here he encountered a problem, and he bit his lip as he studied the cabinet's contents. Kuchiki literally had dozens of hygienic products. Why in the world would a man, even Kuchiki, even _he_, need all of them? Not only that, which ones did he actually use? All of them? Surely not. So maybe only a few of them, fine, but which ones? And how often? And which ones were even the shampoos?

Yumichika pulled out the container of hair dye and looked at it, that nervous knot in his stomach tightening nauseatingly. He didn't have enough to put it in every bottle, and he couldn't randomly guess in the chance that Kuchiki never actually used the one he chose.

He looked again at the shelves' contents. Then frowned. He reached for one bottle and looked at the curving letters on the side. This particular brand had come from a seller that had closed down nearly twenty years ago. He replaced it and picked up another, opening it sniffing lightly. It had a very floral and citrusy smell. Very feminine. Going through the bottles at random revealed the same thing. These were scents were more suited to a woman. So why did Kuchiki have them?

Byakuya certainly didn't seem the type to wear those particular scents, and other than the occasional gripe from Renji that Kuchiki smelled overwhelmingly of sakura at times, Yumichika had never heard anything to contradict that theory.

He looked at the shelf itself, noticed something, then turned one of the bottles slightly on its side. There was a patina of dust on the bottom's edges, as well as a very faint outline in the shelf that no amount of superficial dusting would remove. A small, quiet, understanding tugged at him, and he slowly, gently replaced the bottle.

Kuchiki's wife. Hisana. These were her things. And he had kept them, here, unmoved, for over fifty years.

Briefly, he wondered if Kuchiki ever took them from their shelf, if he ever smelled them and thought of her for a moment, only to replace the container and remember that she was no longer there.

Yumichika wiped a hand over his face, sternly reminding himself why he was in Kuchiki's private bath in the first place. Not to sympathize with the man or humanize him. No, he was here to put Renji, Ikkaku, and Rangiku in their places and win a ridiculous amount of kan. To do that, he had to stop fooling around and find the shampoo that Kuchiki was most likely to use.

Going to the next shelf, he found a much sparser collection of salts and assorted products. These had more subdued scents, more masculine. Unfortunately there were three different shampoos, all of which were partially empty. There was no way to tell which one he was currently using.

Yumichika cursed silently over the man's vanity, ignoring the small part of him that laughed at his hypocrisy. Why couldn't Kuchiki have _one_? Why three? Why five billion different soaps? Did he even use them? Were they just there for show? Were they awful, careless Christmas or birthday gifts?

Sensing an impending meltdown, his eyes raked over the shelf's contents once more—then stopped, spotting what might possibly be his savior. He picked up a jade-colored glass bottle, sniffed it, then poured a small amount of the contents on the tip of his finger. He rubbed his fingers together, spreading the slightly oily liquid.

He let out a sigh of relief. A conditioning oil, and judging from its nearly empty contents and the fact that there were several unopened bottles of the same product tucked in one corner, it looked like Kuchiki used it frequently. The only problem with this was the oil was put in after one was completely through bathing. Meaning it would be in Kuchiki's hair until he rinsed it at another time.

Which might possibly cause side-effects.

Frankly, though, Yumichika couldn't bring himself to care too much at the moment. Yes, he was committing that cardinal sin of fooling with another's _hair_, something he himself would murder over. But the kan . . . he needed the money, and Kuchiki would surely survive anything. Even hair-loss.

Without giving himself a chance to think too much about it, Yumichika opened the lid of the dye and very carefully poured the liquid into the bottle of conditioning oil, then shook it slightly to mix the contents. Fingers suddenly weak, he shoved the oil-dye mixture back into the shelf before he dropped it, then shut the doors firmly.

He released a small, shaky breath, staring at the cabinet. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. Now he really had to leave, because Kuchiki was due back at any time now. Their time navigating the tunnels had cost them, and he sure as hell wasn't going to get caught in Kuchiki's quarters.

Checking briefly to make sure he hadn't left anything out of place, Yumichika hurried back into the bedroom. Ikkaku wasn't anywhere to be found, and after a moment or two of tense waiting, Yumichika decided to drop back into the tunnel without him. He closed the hatch gently, then began making his way toward the exit that came out into a forested hillside. He wanted to be as far away from the dye and Kuchiki manor as possible. He only hoped that his judgment had been right and Kuchiki actually used the conditioning oil—and that Ikkaku and Akon were able to record the reaction properly. Otherwise, he had altered an otherwise perfectly good appearance for nothing.

* * *

><p>Ikkaku had slipped out of Kuchiki's quarters briefly to pad quietly down the hall outside. A quick check into the various rooms didn't yield what he was searching for. Of course, it had really just a vain hope that Kuchiki would change somewhere other than his own quarters. Ikkaku hurried back the noble's quarters as quickly and quietly as possible to avoid alerting any security or servants.<p>

Yumichika was gone when he came into the room again, the hatch neatly closed. Good. One less thing he had to worry about. A quick scan of the room and the study beyond revealed that there was absolutely no place for him to hide easily and well enough to stay concealed from someone like Kuchiki. The tunnel then. If he could stay calm and concealed enough to wait until Kuchiki was in the bath. Unless of course he bathed in the mornings. In which case, Ikkaku looked to face a long, hard night on the dirt floor of the tunnel. Which would really, really suck.

Praying to any god that would listen that Byakuya might feel monstrously unclean that night, Ikkaku opened the hatch, dropped down into the tunnel, then closed the opening again, settling in for a long wait.

* * *

><p>Byakuya entered his chambers with only an hour remaining before midnight. Running the Division was far more time-consuming with all the preparations they'd had to make since Aizen's betrayal, but his men needed rest. One day a week could be spared to let them rest, order their business, cause trouble, or whatever they wished to do. He however, could allow himself no such rest. Not with everything left to do. Not with this war looming.<p>

For all his whining and bouts of sudden sleep, Renji seemed to understand this and had remained with him at the office on Saturdays rather than taking leave himself. Even with Byakuya's slight hinting that he may do so, he remained oblivious and continued to stay and work. Or so he pretended ignorance. Byakuya was beginning to suspect his fukutaichō understand exactly the leave that Byakuya had offered and still chose to ignore it. He'd also made considerable forays into the overwhelming amount of backlogged paperwork on his desk. He was trying, and Byakuya wasn't entirely sure how to react to it.

He stepped further into the room, then stopped, overcome with a vague sense of wrongness. Nothing dangerous or even really present, just . . . different. He surveyed the room carefully, but saw nothing out of place. Extending his senses, he felt for any reiatsu close by.

There. Familiar, somehow, close-by. He took a step toward the back of the room, but halted when a soft knock sounded at the door. His senses were thrown a bit, instantly recognizing Hara, his body servant, and Ai, the little servant girl no doubt bringing him his tea. He stayed still a moment longer, reaching again for—_something_.

"Kuchiki-sama?" Hara called softly.

Byakuya turned. There was nothing there of threat. He opened the door for the two servants, who bowed deeply. "Come in," he said quietly, then turned back into the room. He carefully shrugged his haori off and placed it with gentle precision on a stand meant for precisely that purpose.

Ai, already in her sleep clothes and hair tied in a loose braid, carefully brought his tray of tea into the room and set it on the table. She arranged the cup and kettle, trying unsuccessfully to hide a small yawn against her shoulder.

Byakuya's mouth thinned a little as he took the tea in hand. He took a sip, eyes sliding shut briefly. He felt tired. Worn. He pushed it firmly aside, though, and set the cup back down into its platter. He looked down at the young girl, nearly falling asleep where she stood.

"Ai," he said softly, and the girl jerked to attention with surprise.

"Yes, Kuchiki-sama?"

"I thank you for the tea." The words sounded strange, falling oddly from his mouth. "Your services are no longer required."

Ai, and Hara standing a few feet behind her, stared at him owlishly.

Byakuya frowned slightly. "To bed with you," he said a tad more firmly.

Ai snapped out of whatever strange mood had befallen her, bowed deeply, then hurried from the room. Byakuya looked at Hara, only to see the man turn his face quickly to hide a small smile and start toward the bath to draw the water. Byakuya followed him.

Once the water had reached a suitable level, Byakuya methodically shed the rest of his clothing, setting it aside for Hara to take to the laundresses later, then carefully stepped into the water. The warm water felt wonderful to his tired body—drills and little sleep could eventually wear at even the strongest men, and Byakuya knew he was no exception.

Hara, with a gentle reverence, helped him remove the kenseikan in order to wash his hair. Byakuya slid further down into the tiled bath and allowed Hara to continue without any further instruction, letting his mind drift only on the simplest surface thoughts as he deft fingers ran through his hair, the faint scent of the shampoo's musky spice tingeing the air.

Hara was older than he and had been serving him since he was only a child under his grandfather's care. Very few people even among the servants were allowed to glimpse him in such a relaxed state. It made him uncomfortable to been seen as anything less than rigidly in charge, especially in front of his staff. Too many times he had been mistaken in placing his confidence in someone, only to have plotting, conniving family members at his throat.

Now bathed and with his hair washed, Byakuya forced himself to stand from the now-tepid water, ignoring the longing for a few more minutes and a bit more hot water. Hara stood waiting with a towel, and he was quickly dried and clothed. He worked the towel through his hair gently, then motioned vaguely toward the shelves. Hara went to them, returning to his side with a jade bottle of conditioning oil.

Byakuya sank slowly down onto one of the stools to allow the shorter man access to his hair. Hara made a small noise behind him, and he turned slightly to peer at the man.

"Yes?"

Hara shook his head slightly, "Nothing, my lord, it's just—there's more in here than I thought there to be. Not a lot, really. Never mind. Probably my old mind going."

"Mmm," Byakuya hummed softly, facing forward again. "If there isn't much left, I suppose just use the rest. It won't hurt anything."

Hara murmured an assent, then began working it the rest of the contents thoroughly throughout his hair until it was evenly distributed. Finished, Hara took Byakuya's clothes, bowed, then excused himself.

Byakuya sat a few more minutes just taking in the silent stillness around him. He inhaled deeply, eyes closed. Alone in the peace.

Alone.

His gaze slid slowly toward the shelves that held his wife's salts and soaps, and he stared at it for a moment with no clearly defined thoughts going through his head. Just weariness and a deep, hollow sadness.

"Not now," he murmured, looking away from the shelves and closing his eyes. "Later. But not now. "

Then he stood and went into his bedroom to sink into his bed. It was probably midnight by now, and the soutaichō expected everyone in his meeting hall first thing in the morning. _Perhaps tonight_, he thought, _I may rest._

He knew better, though.

* * *

><p>Ikkaku ran as much as he was able to in the cramped, stuffy tunnels, heart pounding rapidly. His prize was shoved down the front of his shihakushō, one hand gripping it and the cloth of his shihakushō in one claw-like hand.<p>

He was grinning wildly. He'd done it.

And Kuchiki hadn't noticed at all.

* * *

><p>"Hey guys, wake up."<p>

Yumichika stirred, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden light. He heard Ikkaku swear something unintelligibly, then fall out of his cot. Groggy, he sat up and looked at the door to see Akon standing there with a cup of coffee and a cigarette in the side of his mouth. The man looked completely unfazed despite probably spending the entire night without sleep.

"Kuchiki's up," Akon said. "Show's about to start, so come on." He turned and disappeared from the resting room.

It took a second for Yumichika's sleep-addled mind to comprehend what he meant, but when he did, he leaped from the cot and hurried out the door. Ikkaku followed closely behind, and they both emerged from the small hallway into Akon's work room. The scientist stood in front of one of the many large monitors, pale skin and spiky brown hair glowing oddly in the light cast from it.

They crowded over to the monitor, peering at it eagerly. All they saw was a pair of feet walk across the monitor.

There was a beat of silence. Then, "What the hell?" Ikkaku muttered. "I thought you said you had this covered. I don't need to see his damn feet—feet mean nothing to me!"

Akon looked at Ikkaku blandly, then typed something rapidly on the computer's keyboard. The view on the screen started moving.

"Well, where shall I go?" Akon asked, taking a noisy sip of his coffee. "I can take the spidercam anywhere, just say the word. Seeing as I was not actually inthe room, I can't pick out the greatest vantage point from where Ikkaku has carelessly dropped me on the floor. Rather than putting me on a surface. As I had instructed. Because he's a dumbass."

Ikkaku growled something rather unpleasant, and Akon merely took another slurp of coffee.

Yumichika studied the view from the monitor intently. They had little time for this. Byakuya was up, and he'd see himself at any moment.

"There," he said suddenly, jabbing a finger at the wooden leg of a chair or table in the right hand corner of the screen. "Can it climb that? It can see the whole room from the top of that table."

"It should," Akon said with a slight shrug. He typed in another rapid stream of commands, and the spidercam skittered off toward the leg. It scrabbled at the leg for a moment, then hauled itself quickly up it and onto the table. Yumichika breathed a sigh of relief as Akon settled it into place right as Kuchiki stood from his bed and tied the belt of his shihakushō tight.

The lab room was silent for a stunned moment. Akon even dropped his cigarette as he stared wide-eyed at the monitor.

"Yumichika," Ikkaku said, voice strangled, "what the _fuck_ did you do to him?"

Yumichika made a weird sound in his throat, but was unable to speak. It had worked. Gods, it had actually worked.

Akon suddenly barked out a laugh. "You dyed his hair!" he said, bending over his computer's keys with deep, unrestrained laughter. "You dyed Kuchiki Byakuya's hair. Without him even knowing."

"After all that shit you give me about messing with your hair, and then you go and do that to him?" Ikkaku demanded, but Yumichika heard a definite note of grudging admiration.

Yumichika shrugged weakly, still staring fixedly at Byakuya's completely and utterly snow-white hair.

Kuchiki straightened his shihakushō to perfection, then walked toward the opposite side of the room near the door, passing in front of the full length mirror against his wall.

And froze.

And turned to look at himself head-on.

Kuchiki's eyes went impossibly wide. With surprising swiftness, he was suddenly standing in front of the mirror, one hand gripping the side of it tightly, the other tugging at the ends of his white hair. His face was almost blank, aside from the wide, quickly moving eyes as the took in his appearance. He mouthed something very slightly, though the spidercam unfortunately had no audio, so it couldn't pick it up.

While Kuchiki did look more surprised than they had ever seen him, he still seemed so . . . unaffected. Yumichika frowned slightly, biting the nail of his thumb. "This counts, right?" he asked worriedly. "I mean, that's the best reaction we've gotten so far, right?"

"Yeah," Ikkaku agreed, sounding somewhat lost. "But I dunno. He's like a machine or something. No one's even in the room to see or hear him—well, not that he knows of. If it was you, you'd be screaming bloody murder."

Yumichika didn't even bother to retort, because it was true. Byakuya should be far more upset than he was showing.

Kuchiki had taken a step back from the mirror and was now staring at himself. He was far more composed, though Yumichika could see a slight frown in his brow. After a moment, he disappeared from the room, only to return shortly after with his kenseikan. Which he promptly started working into his hair.

Akon let out another little laugh, shaking his head. "He's accepted it for now. Must have somewhere to go otherwise I'm sure he'd try to fix it. Insane."

Yumichika sighed, shoulder sagging with something that felt very much like defeat. After all that effort, all that stress.

Kenseikan in place, Kuchiki spared only one more glance at his hair before moving once again toward the other side of the room.

"My turn," Ikkaku practically cackled.

Kuchiki paused in front of a man-sized stand, looking confused, then abruptly yanked something from the stand. Akon hurriedly typed a command into the computer, and the spidercam zoomed in. Kuchiki was holding a garish, pink-colored haori. He stared at it, eyes deadly and jawline shown in sharp relief.

"It says the 'Pretty Princess Division,'" Ikkaku stated smugly.

Yumichika shook his head. "You took his haori, Ikkaku? You know that's an actual offense, right?"

Ikkaku shrugged carelessly. "I figured I'd already entered his house illegally, might as well go all the way."

Again, Kuchiki said something, only this time it wasn't hard to guess what. The haori burst into flame, and he dropped it. It was completely consumed by the fire before it had even hit the floor. Byakuya turned and sharply exited the room.

"Oh, dear," Akon said. "I hope you didn't expect him to wear it."

Ikkaku frowned. "Not much of a reaction there, either. Dammit. Guess we both failed, huh."

"Ikkaku, where is his haori now?" Akon asked, taking another sip of his coffee.

Ikkaku looked at him, confused, and pulled the mussed Sixth Division's taichō haori from his shihakushō. "Here. Why?"

"May I have it?"

Ikkaku handed it over, bewildered, "Sure, I guess. I don't need it anymore. Probably actually a good to be rid of it."

Akon smiled absently down at the garment. "Thanks, I'll look after this. Oh, and I can give some stills straight to Kira if you like."

Ikkaku grunted, good mood apparently gone and replaced with a general, sleep-deprived apathy. "Sure, sounds good."

Yumichika sighed, staring forlornly into the spidercam's view of the empty room. "Well, thank-you for your time, Akon. We must be heading to our own Division, though."

Akon nodded at them. "Anytime, guys. Was entertaining like nothing else."

The two Eleventh Division shinigami slunk out of SDRI looking like dogs with their tails between their legs.

* * *

><p>With the arrival of the perennially-late Shunsui, the soutaichō rapped the end of his staff against the stone floor of the meeting hall to call order and begin the session.<p>

"To start, I would like—"

Ukitake cleared his throat rather loudly, then smiled guilelessly at Yamamoto when the old man turned an irritated look at him. "If I may, Soutaichō," Ukitake said, "Kuchiki-taichō has not arrived yet."

There was a confused moment where those that had not previously noticed turned to look at the conspicuously empty spot where the Sixth Division taichō normally stood. Yamamoto frowned severely.

"This is odd," he said, almost to himself. "Kuchiki has never been absent before."

"Oh, dear," Shunsui sighed sadly. "I've actually managed to show up before someone else."

Ukitake rolled his eyes, but couldn't help smiling softly at his friend.

"Hm," the soutaichō grunted. "I suppose we may wait a few more—"

They all felt it then, the disturbance of reiatsu that was familiar but not completely right. Ukitake frowned. It felt like Byakuya, but sharper somehow. Razor sharp, tightly controlled.

"Someone's upset," Shunsui muttered.

Then they heard the slight tapping of footsteps, followed shortly after by the actual shinigami.

And then it was abundantly clear why Byakuya seemed agitated.

Ukitake found he could only blink at the white hair that had somehow replaced Byakuya's normally ink-black strands. It was so white, it was hard to tell where the hair and kenseikan met. They looked almost to be one entity. Beside him, Shunsui muttered an, "Oh, dear _kami_," and various other startled remarks were made by the taichō present.

Byakuya's haori was wrong, too. Older looking, somehow. Perhaps a bit longer. Still, the hair was . . . goodness, the hair was definitely the most noticeable.

Zaraki merely let out a low, rolling laugh as Byakuya walked past him. Byakuya ignored the man, but Ukitake could see in the rigid posture—more tightly set than usual—that he was well aware of what was being said and how he was being looked at.

Byakuya came to his spot and settled into his customary bored stance, managing to look somewhat as if he'd fallen asleep at the very start of the meeting. The soutaichō stared at him for a moment, clearly waiting for an apology, an explanation, something. Byakuya merely looked at him through heavily hooded eyes and waited pointedly.

Yamamoto sighed so forcefully, Ukitake could see it all the way from the other end of the hall. Then he rapped his staff sharply against the stones again.

"To start with, I would like a concise status-report on the joint-drills."

* * *

><p>Byakuya hurried to make his exit before someone became foolish enough to attempt conversation with him. He needed to speak with Hara. Someone had entered into his house, done something to his hair, and <em>stolen <em>his haori so that he had been forced to wear his grandfather's, something he had been loathe to do.

This was an insult. It was utterly unacceptable, and he would deal with it accordingly. For now, he just had to make it home.

Zaraki started to approach him, a great mocking smirk splitting his face. Yachiru bounced excitedly atop his shoulders, shrieking something about "Byakushi-Whitey III."

Byakuya turned a hard look on him. _If you come over here, I will kill you_.

Zaraki's eyes flickered with something. Lust. A battle-lust. A lust for blood. He _wanted _a fight, wanted to bleed, wanted to test his sword against another, stronger foe. He was completely mad.

Byakuya narrowed his eyes dangerously, feeling his control slip a little. After this morning, if Zaraki attempted battle, Byakuya wasn't so sure he would deny him.

"Good morning, Byakuya!" Ukitake said with a great deal of cheer, deftly stepping in between Byakuya and the slowly advancing Eleventh Division taichō.

Byakuya blinked at the man. Beyond him, Zaraki paused, laughed that deep rumbling laugh of his, then departed from the meeting hall.

"Wonderful morning, yes?" Ukitake said with a genuine smile. The man's bright green eyes shone with actual cheer and humor. "You look wonderful this morning. Brighter, somehow."

Byakuya stared at him, hoping that silence would deliver the hint that he greatly desired to be left alone.

"You've done something with your hair," Ukitake remarked brightly. "I have to admit, I was surprised initially, but it's grown on me quite a bit."

Byakuya narrowed his eyes, but Ukitake had turned and therefore didn't noticed.

"Hitsugaya-taichō!" he said cheerfully, waving the young man over to them.

Hitsugaya looked first at Ukitake, then Byakuya. His expression was controlled, mature for his age. He nodded once to Byakuya. Byakuya returned the gesture with the slightest tip of his head. This one, at least, he had an understanding of sorts with.

"Ah, look at us," Ukitake continued on. Blathering was not, perhaps, the kindest or most accurate of words, but Byakuya was tempted to describe it as such. "It's very hard sometimes to have hair like this," Ukitake sighed. "One comes to like it after a while, though, yes? We must stick together, us white-haired men." He ruffled Hitsugaya's hair, and the young man's expression slipped from carefully controlled to irritated scowling.

Ukitake reached inside the sleeve of his haori and removed a small tied sack of brightly-colored cloth. He slipped the ties and reached in, hand emerging again with a dozen treats or so. He thrust these at Hitsugaya, smiling brilliantly the entire time. Hitsugaya took them sullenly, the faintest red touching his cheeks.

Byakuya had absolutely no idea how to react, so he just continued to stand there. It would be unforgivably rude to walk out on his former teacher, but he was fast approaching that course of action.

Ukitake reached into the sack again, peering inside it intently. He picked a few things out, all colored red or orange, then held them out to Byakuya with a warm smile.

"I do not like sweet things," Byakuya said flatly.

"Ah, I know, that's why these aren't sweet," Ukitake said, gesturing for him to take them.

Byakuya glanced down briefly at Hitsugaya, who was already sucking on one of his suckers. He rolled his eyes slightly, then jerked his head toward Ukitake. _Just take it_.

Byakuya frowned slightly. "It is candy," he said, then flattened his lips slightly in irritation. He had not meant to say that. Of course it was candy. They all knew that. But how could candy not be sweet?

Ukitake laughed lightly. "It's spicy. I promise you will like it. Or at least you won't hate it," he amended.

"Hmm." More in an attempt to end the conversation than anything else, Byakuya took the candy from his hand and slipped it into a pocket in the arm of his shihakushō.

Ukitake positively beamed at him and reached his hand up, then stopped when he saw Byakuya's warning expression.

"Ukitake-taichō, Hitsugaya-taichō," Byakuya said politely, tipping his head slightly to them. Then he turned and walked briskly from the meeting hall.

Absolutely unacceptable. Something must be done to restore his hair-color. He could not have Ukitake thinking that he could give him candy and—and _ruffle _his hair like he was some child. One thing was for certain, someone had been playing pranks on him. They had gotten bolder, coming into his manor—into his bedroom—and had actually had the audacity to steal from him.

Something would have to be done.

* * *

><p>"Now that was rather odd, wasn't it?" murmured Ukitake thoughtfully as he watched Byakuya practically sprint from the meeting hall.<p>

"It was probably a prank," Hitsugaya said from around his sucker.

Ukitake looked down at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Hitsugaya regarded him with a somewhat bored, somewhat exasperated expression. "Some of the shinigami are being ridiculously foolish. They've made a bet to see who can make Kuchiki-taichō lose his composure."

Ukitake opened his mouth abortively a few times, then finally managed, "They _what_?"

Hitsugaya nodded commiseratively. "That was my reaction. Matsumoto was talking about it. They've got a fair amount of kan going on the whole thing. She told me this when she was completely drunk, sobbing over Kuchiki's rejection of her last week. Obviously it's a huge secret," he frowned. "Or it's supposed to be. Matsomoto is involved, so that won't last very long."

Ukitake felt interest spark, despite his better judgment. "Who's involved, do you know?" he asked.

Hitsugaya shook his head, sticking the sucker back in his mouth. "Matsumoto was surprisingly tight-lipped about it. She did mention Kira-fukutaichō, though. It's all a little ridiculous. We don't have time for this nonsense. I'm going to tell Kuchiki-taichō fairly soon. We can't have our attention divided like this."

"Well, now, wait a minute," Ukitake blurted suddenly.

Hitsugaya looked at him expectantly.

"Ehm. Well." _Kami_, how brilliant he was sometimes. Then he had it. "Perhaps a distraction isn't so bad," he said.

Hitsugaya stared at him blankly.

"What I'm saying is, perhaps a break from all this doom-and-gloom, betrayal and death, war-on-the-horizon business may not be a bad thing. In fact, it may be just the opposite." Once started, Ukitake had no trouble continuing. "Something like this _is _a waste of time. It's also something normal, something that these shinigami are having fun with, bonding over, even."

"At someone's expense," Hitsugaya reminded. "A particularly powerful, proud someone."

"Yes, yes," Ukitake waved at him, "but Byakuya can handle himself. Perhaps this will actually be good for him."

"I find it hard to believe hair-dye is beneficial to Kuchiki-taichō," Hitsugaya replied dryly, removing the almost completely-consumed sucker from his mouth once more.

Ukitake smiled. "Come now, Hitsugaya-taichō. You won't tell, right? No one likes a tattle-tale."

Hitsugaya scowled briefly, before throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Fine, I'll let things stand as they are. The second I feel that the affair is passing into dangerous—for anyone involved—I'll go to Kuchiki."

Ukitake chuckled, smiling broadly. "There we go. Wonderful as always to talk to you." He turned to leave, then paused, looking back almost as an afterthought. "Oh, and you said Kira-fukutaichō was involved in this?"

Hitsugaya nodded, frowning slightly. "At least that's what Matsumoto told me."

"Ah, so nice to see him conspiring and associating with others. Have a nice day, Hitsugaya," Ukitake said with a wave, then turned again to leave the meeting hall.

Perhaps he should go talk to Kira about this little bet. Just out of curiosity, of course.

* * *

><p>RENJI. WHERE WERE YOU? D:<p>

Okay, so for whatever reason, FF will sometimes smash words together that I know for a fact I had separated. I tried to find all of them, but they're easy to miss. Either ignore them, or PM where any errors are, and I'll gladly fix them. Thanks!

Last thing: I really want to write Byakuya's life. At least up until after the SS arc. Sooo . . . I might. When this is over. I was thinking of doing three different stories: one set in his childhood, a Byakuya/Hisana centered one, and one that picks up after Hisana's death and on until Ichigo and Co. return home from their little visit with Aizen and everybody. Tell me what you think. (Even if it's, "DON'T CARE.")


	4. Chapter Four

Rather than boring you with excuses, I'll just say I'm really sorry that it took so long for this chapter to come out. RL business and all that.

That being said, this chapter was really hard to write, not at all what I had originally _planned _to write, rewritten multiple times, and in the end I'm still not pleased with it. Rather than scrapping it again, I've decided to just barrel on with the story.

This chapter is not funny, sorry. Or it's not really intended to be, but who knows. No matter what I did, it seemed like all anyone wanted to do was roll around in drama and misery, so there we go. Part of the problem is that in my head-canon, something which I hope to write at some point, Ukitake was Byakuya's teacher both before and during his Academy days. Soon after the death of his parents and another tragic incident, Byakuya was sent to Ukitake, inevitably setting Ukitake up to be the stand-in father-figure. So it was pretty much impossible for me to just write it as "Ukitake's going to mess with Byakuya, hahahaha."

Next chapter will be lighter, I promise. Also, this story will eventually get to the serious pranking. It will just be another chapter or so to get the ball rolling.

**WARNINGS:** No beta, some light cursing, a swamp of angst, lack of Renji :(

* * *

><p><strong>The Chapter Where Ukitake and Kyōraku Angst, Byakuya and Rukia Share Angst Tea, and People Start Talking<strong>

Without her powers, Rukia was of very little use around the Thirteenth Division. Ukitake-taichō was kind, and would never really come right out and say it, but she was in the way more often than she was helpful. Within the first two weeks, she had already organized and re-filed every document the Thirteenth possessed, and had then moved on to more ridiculously contrived tasks. It was when she attempted redecorating Ukitake's office that her taichō, out of sheer exasperation, had told her to go home. Now she spent maybe one or two days at the division, while the rest of her time passed in mind-numbing boredom at home.

Normally, Rukia would have found this frustrating, but today she was far too distracted.

She gently pulled the flowers free from the ground, taking care not to damage the stems, and lay them in the pile at her side. They were young, but they were still a beautiful deep blue that she knew Nii-sama would find pleasing. He enjoyed things like that, she was certain. Even if he wasn't very open about it.

These she would put in a small vase to be admired as he took his tea. Her ikebana skills were not on par with Unohana-taichō's, but surely she could accomplish something that would be at least pretty to look at.

While they had tea together.

The thought sent a little flutter of nervousness into her stomach while at the same time warming her. Nii-sama had actually invitedher to have tea with him and—how had he put it? "Enlighten him as to her activities of late." He had asked her how she was _doing_. It was uncharacteristic from his usual distanced aloofness. Sure, they had had these sorts of meetings before, but they had always seemed more like a duty to Byakuya. Lately, though, Nii-sama had been acting differently. At times less-guarded, while at others almost inhumanly distant. He seemed at war with himself, something she had never imagined could be possible. Their relationship was changing, had already changed. She just had to try her hardest to make it change for the better.

Rukia couldn't be more thrilled. She actually felt the mixture of emotions pressing against her chest, ready to burst free, and there was a sharp prick of pain behind her eyes. She blinked a few times, shaking her head at her foolishness. Then she gathered the flowers up into her hands and rose, taking off back toward the manor with a bounce to her stride and a wide smile.

* * *

><p>Renji just stared. That's all he could really do. It was almost as if his mind had shut off.<p>

Steel grey eyes glanced down at a paper to read something off of it, only to look back up at him a second later. Heavy-lidded, cold, and almost condescending in their gaze, they forced him immobile even as someone spoke something vaguely important in the background that should have moved him to do . . . something.

The three sections of black that normally fell across his taichō's visage were gone, replaced with an unblemished white that only served to emphasize Kuchiki's pale skin.

Renji felt a slimy, cold foreboding slither in his stomach. This was not normal. Which meant that someone had done this to Kuchiki-taichō—and he probably knew why.

"—been very diligent of late, and—"

Oh, this was bad. Very badbadbad_bad— _Huh. His eyebrows were still black. Like Ukitake-taichō's. It was strange. The white didn't look right. The grey eyes were sharper without the inky-black framing them. Far, far too sharp. Creepily so.

"—perhaps actually keep up with the current pace in order to—"

_White_. Gods, it was so damn _white_!

Those grey, razor-blade eyes narrowed, black brows creating a slight furrow between them.

"—gaping like a frog after flies, Renji. You're not actually listening, are y—"

"Taichō, your hair," Renji finally managed to breathe.

Kuchiki became very still. He looked unsettlingly like a cat readying itself to seize it's prey. "Yes, Abarai-fukutaichō?" he questioned with a deadly quiet.

Renji noticed, but couldn't force his mouth shut. "It's white!"

Byakuya stared at him, and a suffocating, overwhelmingly dense moment of silence fell over the office.

"As always, your skill of observation leaves nothing to be desired," Kuchiki-taichō said acidly.

Renji shrank a little, feeling the sharp pulse of heated reiatsu from his taichō. At that moment, pushing Taichō might have actually resulted in a display of emotion. However, despite the fact that the bet kind of hinged on making Kuchiki snap, Renji valued his life far more than kan. Besides, even if he had a camera with him, he doubted it would survive the shredding Senbonzakura promised him.

"Er, it's not actually all that noticeable," Renji tried to amend weakly. "Doesn't look so bad—not bad at all, I mean. Dignified. Yes! That's it. Regal. Noble."

He was rambling, and Kuchiki-taichō was still glaring at him. _Oh, _kami_, shut up! Please! _he begged himself. His mouth went right along vomiting nonsense.

"It suits you just fine, really. I'm sure you could make a club or something with Ukitake-taichō and Hitsugaya-taichō. Very exclusive. Maybe have a mascot—like a ghost or something. Which is funny, you know, because we're technically not living, and yet ghosts aren't _really _white, so—"

The reiatsu settled with a noticeable snap, the thick spiritual pressure lightening significantly. Kuchiki-taichō didn't look any happier, though. He just turned away and went back to his desk and sat down. Renji continued standing in the middle of the office, bewildered and a little unsettled.

"Paperwork, Abarai," Byakuya intoned severely, head already bent over a report. "Then spend the day doing drills with the recruits." He peered up at Renji, adding, "Perhaps you can teach them how to state the obvious as well as yourself."

Renji groaned inwardly, then slunk over to his desk and sat down heavily behind it.

* * *

><p>Byakuya had left the office after only an hour or two of performing paperwork triage and ensuring that Renji knew exactly what needed to be accomplished by the end of the day. That done, he had left the Division in his fukutaichō's admittedly capable hands and headed back to Kuchiki Manor. There had been a breach in security, and it was vital that he uncover it and have it fixed.<p>

From there, he would launch a tireless search into the identities of these—_pranksters_. This was outrageous. Someone had entered into his _home_ and toyed with him and his belongings. It was wrong. Annoying. Unsettling after everything that had happened recently with the ryoka and Aizen. If someone could come into his manor easily enough to steal his haori while he himself had also been in the dwelling, then someone could just as easily enter it with more violent intentions. He would no doubt be unharmed by any such attack, but there were others to be accounted for. His personal guard should be able to handle themselves. Then there were the staff. The manor held many servants, some of which were only children. There was also Rukia to be considered.

His lips thinned at that, and his pace became a little brisker.

When he arrived at the manor, he immediately ordered his captain of security to meet with him. He curtly explained what had transpired, and the captain showed admirable control by managing not to stare at his hair the entire discussion. After suitable apologies were given, the man was dismissed to tighten the guard as he saw fit.

Byakuya then summoned Hara.

To his credit, Hara did nothing so outrageous in reaction as dropping the tray bearing tea. He merely hesitated in one step before fully coming into the room, bowing, and setting the tray on the table between them.

The man bowed, head touching the floor. "Kuchiki-sama, forgive me—"

"Get up," Byakuya said, though there was no bite in his voice. "It was nothing you did, I'm certain."

With a murmured thanks, Hara settled into a sitting position, waiting in silence while Byakuya sipped from his teacup.

After a few moments, Byakuya set the cup down on the tray once more. He peered gravely at Hara. "Is there anything that can be done?"

Hara's mouth pursed in thought. "Kuchiki-sama," he begin delicately, "something like this is not easily reversed. It will fade, but depending on the nature of the dye, it could take anywhere from days to even months."

"Months?" Byakuya repeated a little more harshly than he'd intended.

Hara nodded, the barest evidence of sympathy on his face. "The only thing I can suggest is to cleanse your hair more often and use a soap designed to rid it of impurities, or chemicals."

Byakuya retrieved his tea, drinking in silence as he mulled over this incredibly unsatisfying solution. "Very well," he said finally. "I have need of you tonight, and every night that follows until this inconvenience is dealt with. You may leave."

Hara bowed, rose, bowed again, then left with the tea and tray.

Alone, Byakuya pressed two fingers to the side of his temple, eyes shutting briefly. This was absolutely ridiculous. He took one of the white strands in his fingers and peered at it critically. It was a blazing sign for anyone not thick enough to understand that someone had gotten the better of Kuchiki Byakuya. In his own home, no less. It was—Byakuya searched for the word—disgraceful. Shameful. Unsettling, even.

Unable to force himself still in the wake of a fresh wave of frustration, he stood and made his way to his chambers. Surely there would be something there that might betray his intruder.

* * *

><p>Akon felt the material of the taichō haori between his fingertips, bemused. It was good material, soft enough. Kuchiki no doubt thought it was as cheap as sackcloth, though.<p>

He looked down at one of his beautiful girls, just waiting on the table for him. A new model, small as his fist and fresh off the testing floor. The blank lenses stared back at him, as if they had accepted their fate. He frowned at that. Sure there was a chance of danger, but not a very high one. He'd programmed a route for the bot that changed every day, and it was faster than even a shunpo. It would be fine. Probably.

Akon took the haori and attached it securely to the bot. Nothing short of a tornado would be able to even ruffle it. He swept a critical eye over the results. It hung in the air by its own propulsion and could barely be seen with the haori draped over it.

Akon sent it zipping around the room once. The haori covered it well, and it really looked as if the garment had come to life of its own accord and was now flying around the room. He smiled, pleased with his own ingenuity.

All that remained now was to talk with Kira-fukutaichō.

* * *

><p>Rukia had set the table to perfection, retrieved the most beautiful and comfy pillows for her and Nii-sama to sit on, and was now trying to decide which tea from Nii-sama's vast collection would be the most appealing to him for this particular occasion. There were teas for morning, noon, and night, desert teas, teas for bed, teas for waking, teas for cleansing, and so on until Rukia was tempted just to close her eyes and pick at random.<p>

She knew her nii-sama's favorites, so that narrowed it down somewhat. She was caught between a simple green tea and a black tea with a pleasant spicy scent. Perhaps she should make both? But then if neither of them drank it, it would be a waste, and Nii-sama would surely comment on it. Not to be cruel, really. It was just how he was.

There was a commotion outside. The captain of the manor's security was barking orders at his men, and there was a scramble of movement on the grounds. It was as if they were searching for something. She paid little attention to it, so concerned was she with the monumental decision before her.

Her head snapped up in surprise at the sudden spike of familiar reiatsu. She had dropped her tea and thrown the door to the hall aside before she forced herself to a stop. Why was Nii-sama home already?

She chewed her lip and looked back into the room. It wasn't ready yet. Did he think that they were sitting down with each other right now?

But why was he so agitated?

Decision made, Rukia hurried into the hall and toward the general location of the reiatsu spike. Tea be damned, something interesting was going on.

Seeing the door to his chambers open, she came to a quick stop and tried not to look quite so interested as she timidly stood in the entrance.

"Nii-sama, why are—" the words died in her mouth as she actually saw him.

He was kneeling and had been peering down into a large hole in the middle of his floor. Now he was looking at her with that same bland expression he always wore, save for maybe a few harried-looking edges.

Rukia walked into the room without consciously thinking of it and came to stand only a few feet from Byakuya. She knew she looked like a fool with her mouth open and her eyes enormous, but she couldn't seem to stop staring.

With a small sigh, Byakuya stood neatly to his feet and looked down at her with a sense of endless patience.

"Nii-sama," Rukia managed quietly after a few moments, "What happened?"

"An unfortunate lapse in security," he said curtly. After the briefest hesitation, he added with a distinct sour note, "I was not, perhaps, the most vigilant the night before."

"I—what?" Rukia felt painfully lost.

Byakuya gestured at the hole in his floor, which upon further inspection really proved to be some sort of trap door. Rukia felt her stomach fall to her feet. It was, after all, her fault for not being more firm in telling the girl _no _about her wretched tunnels.

"Yachiru?" she asked weakly.

Byakuya shut the trapdoor with a sharp motion of his hand. It fell into place loudly. "While that girl is far more mischievous than any normal being, I don't think it was her doing. Dirt from the tunnel was tracked into my chamber, so the intruder had a knowledge of the tunnel. There was also this." Byakuya led her to one of the tables in the room. On it was the smashed metal and mechanical remains of something very small.

Rukia frowned at it. "It looks almost like some sort of robot. Did you find it in this condition?"

"No."

Rukia glanced back up at Byakuya, but he only stared down at the mechanical mess with a bland expression and the slightest sense of satisfaction.

Rukia hesitated before asking, "Nii-sama, why would someone do this?"

Byakuya considered the trapdoor for a moment before responding. "Abarai-fukutaichō's assumption is that it is nothing more malignant than a prankster, though I am finding myself hard-pressed to agree."

"A prankster?" Rukia repeated incredulously.

"You find it absurd, too," Byakuya said, almost absently. He glanced around the room once more, as if looking for something, then made for the doorway briskly enough that Rukia had to scramble after him.

"B-but, Nii-sama," Rukia went on, "why would anyone want to prank you?"

"They dislike me, perhaps?" Byakuya responded with a thoughtful tone. "Is that not the nature of pranks?"

Rukia opened her mouth to respond, when he mused a bit more quietly, "There are many that dislike me. It is, perhaps, not so inconceivable as one might think." This completely undid her thought process, and she stared at her brother's back while something unpleasant and heavy settled in her chest.

It was true, and she had no idea what to say to him. He wouldn't take words of denial, would not understand anything consoling, and it just seemed heartless somehow to agree with him. So she stayed quiet.

As if realizing that he had said something so revealing, Byakuya changed the subject. "I have not forgotten our tea, nor will it be neglected even with this setback. If you will wait for me, I will attend to you shortly. I must speak with the captain once more."

With that, he strode off at a pace that would have had her running to keep up. She sighed as she watched him depart, then made her way back to the room she had prepared. She would try extra hard to make sure Nii-sama felt at ease after all of this. She also needed him to tell her every juicy little tidbit about the affair.

So she could help, of course.

* * *

><p>Shunsui blinked slowly at Jūshirō. "I don't understand."<p>

"Okay, I gave the entry-fee to Kira-fukutaichō," Jūshirō started again, "and he explained the rules and goal and time-limit of the whole affair, and—"

"No, no, I got all that," Shunsui said with a wave of his hand. "I mean, I don't understand _why_. Why are you hassling Byakuya?"

Jūshirō smiled widely as if remembering he had learned to play a new game. Which, essentially, he had. "For enjoyment," he said lightly.

Shunsui blinked again. Then, with a wide yawn, he fell on his back to the grass, arms behind his head, staring up at the sky. "Yeah, well have fun with that," he said, and closed his eyes. Even though he anticipated it, he didn't move to evade the sharp smack that landed on his arm.

"Don't be a stick in the mud," Jūshirō said with a snort. "I need help. I was thinking of maybe inviting him to tea with Unohana-taichō, you, perhaps Rukia, to—ah—reminisce."

It was Shunsui who snorted this time. "To reminisce? How mundane, and yet I have this sneaking suspicion that it will end with him trying to murder you with a look." He sighed. "Jūshirō, I don't wanna screw around with Byakkun. He's so cranky."

Jūshirō laughed. "Yes, he is. But this bet is actually a fantastic idea. You can make money, have a daring, dangerous contest, and maybe get Byakuya to lighten up a little."

Inwardly, Shunsui cringed. He would have to be serious for a moment, and he hated being serious on such a beautiful day, with the sun shining on his face and Nanao-chan not currently screaming at him to get back to work. He also hated chastising his dearest friend.

"You're messing with the man's pride," he grunted. "He's got his oaths and his principles, and all that—but his pride . . . For Byakuya, that's an incredibly important thing. One could even say it's his everything. It keeps him going, keeps him fighting. Poor guy's suffered so much, maybe—" he sighed, hesitating, "—maybe it's all he has left."

There was silence for a long time, long enough that Shunsui, despite trying to actually pay attention to his friend's dilemma, began to doze off.

"I want him to smile again," Jūshirō said softly, and there was such quiet grief in his voice that Shunsui opened his eyes to look at the man.

Jūshirō was staring down at his hands, though it appeared as if he was looking right through them. His smile, almost ever-present, had faded, and his eyes had lost their warmth.

"It's been—Shunsui," he took a deep breath, released it, "it's been so long. Perhaps if he could be goaded into losing that awful composure of his, if that ridiculous mask would crack just a bit—maybe he . . ."

"Maybe he'd be that angry little brat again that back-talked and wouldn't listen to a damn thing anyone said?" Shunsui asked gently. "Who thought he was stronger than anything else, but couldn't even keep himself from crying over a dead dog? He's not your student anymore, Jūshirō. He's not that snot-nosed little runt. He grew up. Grew up to be a damn fine man, if you ask me."

"He grew up to be a man without joy," Jūshirō added quietly.

"That he did," Shunsui said with a deep sigh. "That he did. But do you really think that poking at him with this absurd bet is really going to change anything, though?"

Jūshirō gave a half-hearted shrug, still looking miserably down at his hands.

Shunsui frowned, remembering suddenly. "And wasn't there a pretty rough stretch of time at the Academy?"

Jūshirō's melancholic air seemed to tangibly thicken around him, and he stared intently at a spot on the ground.

Shunsui's eyes narrowed. "There _was_. And you remember it, too. Every day there for a while. Even I noticed how much it affected the kid. Do you really think that pranking him is a good idea?"

"These will not be driven by maliciousness," Jūshirō said fervently. He seemed convinced, though Shunsui could see the slightest tremble of uncertainty in his expression.

"Maybe not," Shunsui assented. "Not from you anyway. There are plenty of reasons to dislike Kuchiki and plenty of people that would jump at the chance to bust him in the nose in whatever way they can. By participating, by not putting a stop to this, you are setting Kuchiki up for a possible fall. One that will go beyond just making his mask crack. Hell, hit it right, and the damn thing could just shatter."

With an agonized moan, Jūshirō flopped onto his back in the grass, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

After a moment of silence, he let his hands come to rest on top of his chest, staring up the clear blue sky. "More than anything," he said quietly, "I want that silly boy to be happy. Despite what has been done to him and everything that has been taken from him."

"He's not a boy, Jūshirō," Shunsui replied, though reticently. He took a breath. This next part might hurt. "And he's not your son."

But Jūshirō didn't flinch or look sad. He merely snorted softly, giving a half-smile. "Maybe not by blood," was all he said. Then, "Tearing walls down is a painful experience, one that can destroy you if there's nothing outside them to protect you."

"And Byakuya's in a damn fortress," Shunsui muttered.

Jūshirō paid no attention to him. "You are right when you say that there are people that wish Byakuya harm. He is used to that. However, there are now people around him that would be there for him if those walls crumbled. And that is not something he has ever had before. He's shaken, on the edge. Now all he needs is a push."

"I doubt Byakuya will be showering his pranksters with gratitude. We don't know if this whole fiasco will even _do_ anything."

"Well . . . no," Jūshirō agreed with a sigh, looking disheartened again.

That was about all he could take. Cursing him in his head, Shunsui smacked his friend's leg with the back of his hand, and Jūshirō looked over at him.

"Fine, I'll help you, geez," he said, feeling somewhat irritable. "Just don't make Byakkun too angry. I don't want to have Senbonzakura shaving me anytime soon. Also, not being blasted by kido would be good."

Jūshirō's radiant smile practically split his face. "Thank you," he said emphatically. Shunsui only grunted in response, feeling almost embarrassed.

"What were you thinking?" he asked.

Jūshirō's grin took on a disturbingly wolfish quality. "To be perfectly honest, I was thinking _alcohol_."

Shunsui couldn't keep a smile of his own from forming. "Well, now you're talking."

* * *

><p>News about Kuchiki's hair had spread fast, as well as a theory spoken of only in low voices and with quick glances over the shoulder.<p>

Ten people at _least_ had visited Kira in the Third Division offices today. Some were his own men, but the rest were all shinigami from varying divisions. Even Ukitake-taichō had shown up, nearly giving him a heart-attack. All of them, whether jumping right into it or skirting around the subject as if it were the plague, wanted to talk to him about The Bet.

The Bet. The words were spoken as if they had some sort of magical quality. Most of them didn't realize that he was actually a part of it. Those that did were threatened subtly to silence—well, beside Ukitake-taichō for obvious reasons—then offered to join. Most declined, but there had been a few that had wanted in.

This thing, this stupid, horrible, suicidal idea of Renji's had become so big that people were buzzing about it. Talking in whispers, giggling and snickering even. There were shifty, conniving looks, huddles of people doing everything but actually working.

Kira wanted to feel irritated, wanted to yell at people to get back to work, that they were so far behind and in such disarray that it would take years to get caught up, but he couldn't. His men, his fellow shinigami, did not look like the haggard zombie-like people they had been when they first came into the offices today. They had life again.

Dammit if Renji hadn't been absolutely right about the bet providing a much-needed distraction.

Oh, he still felt the smothering shadow of his former taichō's presence. They all did. Today, though, the shadow seemed to have receded a little. It felt lighter, a little less insistent in reminding them of what utter failures they had all been to not see what a conniving snake their taichō had been, and he without the aid of Aizen's deceitful zanpakutō. No, Ichimaru's lies were all his own, and they had fallen for them.

And that mattered. It truly did. It had hurt the division in a way that no other enemy attack ever could. Kira had thought, despite kind, reassuring, but ultimately empty words from his friends and fellow shinigami, that the Third Division would never be able to recover. The wound would become infected and eventually the division would decay and fall apart.

Right now, watching genuine laughter and camaraderie in the mess hall, he felt for the first time that maybe they could heal. If keeping the books to Renji's stupid bet was the first stepping stone to making that happen, he would do it flawlessly.

Hopefully Kuchiki-taichō wouldn't literally destroy the Third for its fukutaichō's involvement, though. When they met tonight, he would have to make the clause wherein Renji alone takes the fall a little more concrete. Also, he would have to either open a separate account for the bet money or buy a reinforced chest. Hiding it in the floorboards of his office was not going to cut it anymore. There simply wasn't enough space.

And shinigami just kept on coming.

Two anxious-looking individuals sat themselves down in front of him, looking both terrified and determined. They knew, and they weren't going to be dissuaded. Frankly, Kira didn't have the energy to do any dissuading in the first place. He sighed a took a folded piece of paper from his belt.

"Do you have a pen?" he asked. One of the shinigami, the one with a tattoo above his eye handed him a pen.

"You understand that the entrance fee is four thousand kan, and the starting bet is five hundred kan, correct?" Kira said. They nodded.

"Okay, and you also understand to be smart about this? If you go chattering to anyone and the wrong person founds out, they will be given your names and no one will come help you." He paused, seeing them both turn a little sickly. "Are you still absolutely certain?"

They both nodded, though looking decidedly less determined than they had a moment ago.

"Alright, give me your names and then we'll discuss specifics."

"Rikichi and Yamada Hanataro," the tattooed one responded decisively. The other one seemed to sink further into himself, looking even more miserably nervous than he had before.

Though he felt a sense of guilt, Kira nonetheless wrote their names down then began to outline the rules.

* * *

><p>Byakuya sipped the black tea Rukia had made. A little strong but it had a deep, rich spice to it that was pleasant. She had made it for him, which made it a bit more enjoyable somehow. He peered over his cup to see her staring hopefully at him, and it warmed him. Though that could very well be attributed to the heat of the tea itself.<p>

He gave her a slight nod, taking another sip. "It is good," he said, and he actually meant it.

Rukia ducked her head, but not before he caught her relieved smile. "I hoped it would please you."

The atmosphere in the small room was just on the border between awkward and comfortable. Rukia's fingers fluttered against her own cup before she finally sipped, perhaps betraying nervousness. Byakuya found himself unhappy at the thought that she was feeling unease, especially when the source of it was undoubtedly himself. He felt unsure of how to proceed, either.

Rukia had originally been taken in as a fulfillment of his promise to Hisana. He had made sure she had wanted for nothing, and then separated himself. He did not welcome conversation with her, much less any shared activity beyond dining together. He had a division and a House to run, and he had to show Seireitei that he would rigidly adhere to their commands after this last, grave insult.

He had not the time to look after a little girl freshly graduated from the Academy, so he had rationalized. Neither could Rukia spend all her time at the manor, though. While his wife had been weak and ill, Rukia was vibrant and had so much life in her. It would have been like trying to cage a storm. No, she had to move, fight, grow, live.

So he had given her into the care of the one man he knew would watch over her best, on the condition that she stay at a fairly mid-level rank. Ukitake had not been thrilled, especially since Rukia, though young, held much promise. But his teacher still granted his request.

They had been living in the same house for over forty years and he knew so little about her. She clearly regarded him with genuine honor and respect. She even seemed to—for whatever inexplicable reason—care about him, and more than just the thankfulness one has for possessions and security. She cared with a warmth he didn't quite understand, one that, if he was being completely honest, he didn't deserve.

Fifty years. He had thought he had fulfilled Hisana's dying request. Only now was he beginning to realize just how thoroughly he had failed.

"Nii-sama?"

Byakuya focused, realizing that he had been sitting there with his cup in his hands, staring at her for who knew how long.

"Are you feeling well?" Her eyes showed concern, but he also could see the self-consciousness.

Blue-violet eyes, so similar.

"Nii-sama?"

"You look like her," he heard himself say. A jolt went through him as the words settled between them. He hadn't meant to say that. He sat straighter, not entirely sure what to do now.

Her eyes had widened at first, but now she was looking at him with a look he couldn't quite read. "I know" she said softly. "I've seen her."

They fell into silence and Byakuya took a sip of his tea while he tried, with a feeling uncomfortably similar to desperation, to think of a way to steer the conversation back into safe, explored territory. They were supposed to talk about her health, what she was doing in her spare time. Maybe what she experienced during her time with Kurosaki on earth. This was dangerous ground, and he had no desire to tread on it.

Unfortunately, it seemed Rukia had other plans.

"When I first came here," she said, "I was so in awe of everything. You were like . . . This is stupid, but I thought of you almost like a fairy-tale prince or something." She laughed self-consciously. "But then I heard about your wife . . . about my sister. If you were a fairy-tail prince, you were one that had come to the end of the labyrinth, fought the beast, and climbed to the top of the castle only to find that it was all too late."

Byakuya didn't want her to continue. He didn't want her to tell him these things. Yet even as he resisted, even as he opened his mouth to tell her to stop, even as he shifted in preparation to stand and leave—he found himself leaning closer to her. He took in her words as if they were water and he was a man dying of thirst.

"I thought to myself, 'This is a good man. This is a kind man. It's so tragic that he feels he has to be so thoroughly wretched in order to protect himself from the world.'"

Byakuya frowned and started to protest, but Rukia swiftly held her hand up to stop him. There was steel in her eyes that he had never seen before, at least not turned towards him.

"So I began to find out everything I could about Hisana," she went on. "I thought that since I was taken in because I looked like her, perhaps I could actually become like her. I though that if I was somehow more like her, than maybe—I don't know," she looked away, embarrassed.

Byakuya waited; there was nothing else he could do.

"I thought maybe if I was quieter, delicate, more _her_, I could give you something back. Something in return for your kindness."

Shocked, Byakuya said, "You could never have replaced her."

Rukia actually flinched at that, and he caught the hurt and red-cheeked humiliation on her face before she ducked her head. Realizing how the words had sounded, he cursed himself silently and blundered on.

"Forgive me, what I meant to say was it was never intended that you become Hisana's replacement." Rukia still refused to meet his eyes. Byakuya felt an unpleasant shifting within him. This was not comfortable in the slightest, and he didn't know how to salvage the situation. He wanted, _needed_, to make her understand. It warred with his need for control, for distance. She wouldn't understand just words and logic, but he was loathe to share anything, to give voice to it.

Byakuya wanted to tell her something to assure her that she was very important to him, in a way that was only a little related to her sister. He was starting to suspect that he not only didn't mind having her their, but that he _wanted_ her there. That, maybe, he could find in her a person he could rely on.

He thought of words to say that would make her understand, ones that wouldn't compromise his pride, his distance.

Instead he remembered her sitting in her cell on the single chair he had seen fit to put in there for her, looking at him with grim acceptance as he unflinchingly told her she was to be executed. Then instead of trying to talk to her, to console her, to say anything at all, he had taken his leave, ending their "last conversation" as if it were merely an inconvenient distraction.

_I tried_, he had thought. _I have done everything I can! I have explored every connection the Kuchiki house has, talked with everyone that could influence Rukia's case. I have done everything I possibly can. _

Lies and cowardice.

That deep ache in his chest had returned, throbbing unbearably and making breathing difficult. He did not deserve anything from Rukia.

He set his teacup down gently on the table between them, face slipping back into bland neutrality. He bowed his head, more deeply this time. "Thank you for the tea, Rukia. Our discussion was also pleasant." _Wrong, wrong, wrong._ "I hope to repeat this experience at another time, but for now I must attend to my duties."

He stood then, trying to ignore the spear of panic and guilt at seeing her bewildered expression, her eyes still bight with hurt. He left the room swiftly, making for the entrance of the manor.

This was not running away. There was still much to be done at the Sixth, especially with Renji no doubt snoring at his desk. Then there was the pranksters that had trespassed into his home. They would have to be dealt with. Kenpachi and his infernal fukutaichō needed speaking with. Immediately. And if there was a fight that resulted, well, he could hardly be blamed for defending himself.

He simply did not have the time to deal with anything else.

He was not running away.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading!<p>

Go ahead and leave a comment, criticism, suggestion, anything. Also, feel free to mention characters that you would really like to see. I have the bigger ones down pretty much, but I know there are so many in the Bleach Universe and everyone has their little favorites. No guarantee I'll do anything with them, but go ahead anyway! :)


End file.
